


Guts and Sparks

by MessOfCurls



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, As if you didn't already know it would be Climbing Class, Blood and Gore, But no underage content, Cannibalism, Climbing Class, Crimes & Criminals, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Superpowers, Vigilantism, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8830903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MessOfCurls/pseuds/MessOfCurls
Summary: Cannibalism. Voided warranties. Sometimes you find what you're looking for when you least expect it.





	1. Dissociation

     I can tell I look awkward, but I can’t help it. Standing in the doorway, sweating bullets, my chest rises and falls with each harsh breath, skin clammy beneath cheap thrift-store clothes.  
     “Who the fuck are you?”  
     The blood races through my veins, pulse beating so hard and loud I can barely hear the man speak. But I read his lips, read his expression. I’m not supposed to be here. We both know it. Everyone around the table knows it. I'm not one of them. I am out of place.  
     And I’m scared.  
     Of them? A little.  
     But I'm here. I can't change that now. It's too late for pep talks or backing out.  
     I want to say something clever; to quip like they do in the movies, up in the big leagues. Something that would elicit a groan, straight from the pages of a cheesy comic book. But I’m not thinking in words anymore.  
     Instead, I struggle to stay upright, hand braced against the doorframe, and somehow manage to close the door behind me, locking us in.  
     Locking _them_ in.  
     I turn to them and push down the ache rising in my gut; holding it back even now; hoarding up my breath like I’m trying to fight back a hiccup.  
     A hiccup that could tear me apart.  
     I push it down into the dark place.  
     My mouth feels too small, teeth too large, and it’s only now I realise how tightly I’ve been clenching my jaw this entire time, face aching from the strain. But that’s the least of my worries.  
     Someone else speaks and angry faces turn in my direction. Guns are pointing at me. I count five, maybe, but numbers are next to fall victim to the blur that makes it hard to focus for too long.  
     My eyes widen. _My_ eyes, for now, but that begins to change. Faces turn into shapes, shadows to heat. But I’m not the one looking anymore. I’m in the dark for now; slowly receding, flying blind.  
     The guns waver in their hands. They're unsure and so am I until I feel it - a kick in the gut, hot and cold all at once - that heady combination of excitement and terrible foreboding that always shows up once I’ve passed the tipping point.  
     I feel sick, like I’ve had too much caffeine, head pounding so badly I could throw up. Fingers twitch as bones click and skin stretches, knitting into new shapes. Nails force their way out, sharp and ragged, daggers beneath the skin that bring tears to my sightless eyes.  
     It’s killing off all of my useless parts. Giving way to something else; something cold as ice and hard as iron. Giving me the tools I need.  
     “Guhh…”  
     The dumb sound trails off to nothing as I feel the first rip of skin. It tears upward from the corner of my mouth easily, like paper. I taste blood - my blood - feel it on my tongue and running down my jaw as the wound branches out like the surface of charred wood, burnt and blackened, crackling in a hearth. And I smile despite the pain licking its way along my nerves. But it’s not me smiling, not anymore.  
     The air feels good between my teeth, against my gums. I hear a pained groan that becomes something rough and strange, something inhuman and wrong that would haunt my dreams if I had dreams anymore.  
     I know it's me. Somehow, I still know that much.  
     Noises, nearby. Chairs being pushed back, scraping against the floor. But it’s muffled by the sounds coming from within: the cracks and the rips and the blood thump-thump-thumping through me, so hot and fast, and I feel like I’m drowning in it.  
     I’m growing and breaking at the same time; the old husk falling away, like something emerging from a chrysalis. But I’m no butterfly. Not even a moth. I am the cocoon opening, silk ripping, letting all the spiders spill out.  
     The man's mouth is moving, maybe. I can’t see clearly. Perhaps he's saying something, it's difficult to tell. But I'm starting not to care because I’m not me anymore. I am wet clay taking shape, moulded by another’s hands. I am hardening; fired in the heat of my hunger; vitrified. But I’m not beautiful. No masterpiece. I’m a fucking abomination.  
     I can smell their skin beneath their tacky suits and cheap cologne and I want it. I want it so badly and it feels like forever since the last time. I want it so much it hurts. The hunger is a warm shadow following me around, growing darker every day until all I can feel is its weight dragging behind me, so thick and heavy as it tries to worm its way out into the light.  
     More cracking and shifting and tearing and hardening - of skin and bone and muscle and clothes - and I can’t do anything other than let it happen. But that’s okay. It’s okay now.  
     I _want_ this.  
     Yes, I want this and I hate myself for it. So I turn that hatred outwards, refocus its aim. I am a loaded gun, cocked and primed, ready to pepper the walls with bullets and peel back the paintwork, to spit out shrapnel and gouge chunks out of whatever stands in my way.  
     The dread is gone and I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, brimming with anticipation, and all I can think about is how much I want to unwrap each and every last one of them like presents; tear them apart like fucking wrapping paper.  
     I am becoming, and I can’t stop this.  
     I don’t want to stop.  
     I sense their horror and smell the panic in the air as they fire their weapons. But they can’t touch me inside my fortress. I am a bystander. Locked up inside myself, blind and deaf and dumb, I am unafraid.  
     I am the one being forced down into the dark place now.  
     No, I don’t speak in words anymore; can’t understand them. I speak in racing heartbeats. In pulses and hunger and the red, red, red that lies beneath their frail outer casings, begging for release, screaming to be let out, pleading for me to help, to act.  
     And I do.  
     I’m feeling helpful tonight.


	2. People You May Know

     “Hartley?”  
     “Hm?”  
     “You busy?”  
     Chris glanced up from the monitor. Chopsticks in hand, noodles hanging wet and limp down his chin, it was pretty clear that he was on his lunch break. Not that it seemed to ever stop anyone from walking in whenever they felt like it, like he was tech support at their beck and call.  
      _My mouse isn’t working. Why can’t I open this attachment? Can you reset my password?_  
     He sighed internally, pushing down the gripe. It wasn’t their fault. Most people didn’t know what Chris did or what his responsibilities were, even if he did find himself politely explaining it to them again and again. All they heard was the word ‘computer’ and filled in the blanks.  
     His first instinct was to point out that he had a mouth full of food, but he thought better of it. After all, it wasn’t every day someone from homicide paid him a visit. Traffic cops and admin clerks, maybe, but nobody quite so interesting. Besides, what was he really doing other than eating cheap noodles, browsing eBay and updating his Tinder profile?  
     No, Chris supposed he wasn’t technically ‘busy.’  
     Covering his mouth, Chris sucked up the stray noodles and put the container down, wiping his chin on the back of his hand. “S’up?”  
     “What are you working on at the moment?”  
     “Uh…” Chris leaned back in his chair and searched his memory, brow creasing. “Some cross-drive work. A fraud job. Data recovery for a credit card thing.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”  
     “Would you mind taking a look at something for me?”  
     There was something refreshing about Matthew Taylor. Though Chris had only dealt with him a few times, Chris appreciated his manner - politely getting to the point when others would talk his ear off.  
     Chris glanced around the small, messy office and searched for another other chair to offer the detective, frowning when he couldn’t see one. Someone had probably taken it and he just hadn't noticed till then, but that was unsurprising. Chris rarely had visitors who hung around long enough to need one.  
     Throwing Taylor an apologetic look, Chris cleared some space on the corner of his desk, sweeping aside a stack of files and placing a hard drive on the floor beside his feet before tapping the space left behind with his hand, offering it up as a makeshift seat.  
     “Thanks, but…” Taylor trailed off, acknowledging the half-assed gesture with an amused smile.  
     Shrugging, Chris turned in his chair. “What you got for me?”  
     “Trafficking.”  
     “Right, okay. Isn’t that Vice?”  
     “There’s some crossover,” Taylor admitted, “but I’m looking into this for now.”  
     “Foul play, huh?” Chris asked, lips forming a knowing smile. “Sounds juicy.”  
     “Yeah… that’s not how I’d describe it.” Taylor muttered through a vaguely disapproving look. “If by foul play you mean eight or nine bodies, then yeah, we’re thinking foul play.”  
     “Shit…” Chris paused thoughtfully for a moment while he mulled the statement over. “Wait, eight _or_ nine? You don’t know?”  
     “We’re…”  
     Taylor turned to the door, closing it before rejoining Chris at his desk, causing the blond to peer at him over his glasses, the unasked question lurking in his gaze.  
     “This doesn’t leave the room, okay?”  
     Chris leaned forward in his chair, interest most definitely piqued. “Got it, sure.”  
     Taylor seemed to choose his words carefully. “We’re still putting them back together.”  
     “Dude... what?”  
     Taylor suppressed the urge to call Chris on his lack of formality, bristling internally, but he let it slide. Whatever people had to say about Chris, he was good at what he did. That counted for a lot.  
     “Someone entered a nail salon after hours two nights ago, killing an undetermined number of men, all with priors of varying degrees. As it turns out, the victims were involved in a human trafficking ring. The salon was a front.”  
     “Okay,” Chris nodded, waiting patiently.  
     “Only, they weren’t gunned down. They were torn apart.”  
     Watching Taylor speak, it seemed like the detective didn’t quite believe his own words, but Chris remained silent and let him continue.  
     “The autopsy reports confirm that they had chunks taken out of them. The parts we could identify, anyway. Bite marks. Like someone ate them.”  
     “You’re kidding, right?” Chris asked doubtfully, quirking an eyebrow. “Yanking my chain?”  
     But Taylor didn’t look like he was joking, expression grim. “I went to the scene. No yanking.”  
     Chris looked down at the noodles cradled in his hands and swallowed, nose wrinkling as he placed them to one side.  
     “Ballistics checks show that all the bullets recovered match the guns found at the scene, none of which bear any unfamiliar prints. Besides, there’s no evidence of a weapon being used on the victims. At least not one we can identify right now. But we’re working on it.”  
     “That’s… man.” For a moment, Chris was speechless and simply blinked up at Taylor incredulously. “How is this not on the news?”  
     “Because we’re not talking about it. Got it?”  
     “Yeah, I… I got it.”  
     “Good. So. We’re trying to work out who did this.”  
     “Don’t you mean what?”  
     “No, who. The girls we picked up are all telling us the same thing; that a man ushered them into a room and told them not to come out, and that’s the last thing they did before we showed up. This whole mess was only reported when a woman arrived for her nail appointment the next day and accidentally walked into a bloodbath.”  
     “You’re seriously saying a person did this?” Chris asked, voice laced with lingering doubt.  
     “Potentially. The victims all have priors or criminal associations and no bystanders were hurt. There’s no doubt in my mind that they were the intended targets of… whatever you want to call this. It has the hallmarks of the vigilante bullshit that’s happening over on the East Coast. Only, this guy isn’t taking any prisoners. It was only a matter of time before it came over our way, right?” Taylor paused and met Chris’ eye, a resigned sigh softening his shoulders. “It’s a working theory,” he conceded. “There’s no evidence of any animal tracks, anything else, so… we’re investigating all options.”  
     “Right,” Chris murmured finally, not knowing what else to say. It was a lot to digest. “So what is it you want me to do here? Some Memex, dark web stuff? Because that takes time and--”  
     “No, no. I’m not looking into the trafficking side of it. Ignore that, that’s being dealt with,” Taylor interrupted, waving away Chris’ train of thought. “The salon doesn’t have any surveillance inside for obvious reasons. But we’ve got footage from the surrounding buildings and lots. I want to know if anyone or anything went in or out the day before or after. Anything that seems weird or out of place. Anything at all.”  
     “That desperate, huh?”  
     It didn’t take a detective to see that Taylor clearly disliked the implication that they were at a loose end, but he managed to bite his tongue, tone patient when he spoke again.  
     “We’re looking at every angle, okay? So. Can you do this?”  
     “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Send it over and I’ll… I guess I’ll move some things around?”  
     “Thanks.” Taylor turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “And Chris?”  
     “Yeah?”  
     “Can you make this a priority? We need a handle on this. We can only keep it hush hush for so long. One sniff and the media will have a field day.”  
     “Got it.” Chris nodded, giving the detective a small salute as he left, and he could almost hear Taylor’s eyes rolling as the door closed behind him.  
     Attention returning to the monitors, Chris picked up his lukewarm noodles, but in the wake of their conversation, he'd lost his appetite.

~*~

     Six hours later, Chris felt like he was going round in circles. Circles that looked a lot like pedestrians walking past tired storefronts and the same set of stoplights changing colour again and again.  
     Nothing the day before or the morning after the incident. Nothing the day before that, or the day before that. Now he was nine days back and still nothing.  
     He leaned back and rolled his shoulders, stiff from hours spent hunched over his desk. But he couldn't complain. He liked this, in a way that was difficult to fully pinpoint. Problem-solving. Searching. Like a big game of Where’s Waldo. Only this time Waldo was a murder suspect and Chris was starting to go cross-eyed from looking.  
     It was getting dark out, the desks in the station beyond his room empty, for the most part. All the action was reserved for downstairs at this hour. But Chris barely noticed.  
     It was… it was interesting. In a really fucking morbid way, sure. But what was the alternative on a Wednesday night? Reheated pizza and Netflix, no chill?  
     Yeah, this was better. At least this way he had an excuse for being alone.  
     He wound back another day and set the footage rolling at high speed. The shot was from a security camera set up beside a pharmacy backing onto a small parking lot alongside the salon, though parking lot was probably a rather grand way of describing the small patch of asphalt.  
     Finishing his drink, Chris watched a car pull up. Two men stepped out, walking off at high speed like a Benny Hill skit, but they weren't of interest. After all, they were among the body parts logged in the morgue.  
     The rest of the day passed by, long and uneventful; the same image flickering with little change as the sun passed by overhead, lengthening and shortening shadows. Eventually the car pulled away and the lot was empty and dark; poorly lit save for a dim security light above the back door to the salon.  
     Chris slumped down against the desk, putting his weight on his elbows, fingers slipping beneath his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.  
     No, this wasn't working either. Maybe he'd gone too far back. Whoever--  
     He blinked, sitting up as the footage continued to whizz past. A moment later, he rewound it and reduced the speed.  
     The lot was dark; far enough away from the street to avoid the glare of streetlights. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. But hours of looking had trained Chris' eyes to take note of any little movement. It was there, a darker shade of grey against the night, moving behind the building until, finally, it caught the light.  
     “Hello there…”  
     It was a person, that much Chris could tell. A man, most likely. Dressed in dark colours, maybe all in black, but the weak security light still caught their outline.  
      _Who walks around an empty lot at…_  
     Chris glanced at the timestamp.  
      _...three in the morning?_  
     He watched the person emerge into the light to hastily try the back door, gloved hand seeking a way in, feeling around the doorframe before giving up. The figure stepped back, seemed to survey the side of the building before they were gone, back into the shadows.  
     “Little late for a manicure.”  
     It wasn't great footage: grainy black and white film from a budget camera, catching little more than the man's back. Not exactly case-breaking stuff. But maybe with a little frame by frame scrutiny?  
     He played it back again, slowing it down and pausing before doing it again a few times until, finally, he found what he was looking for: a slight turn revealing a hint of face. Crunching the empty can in his hand, Chris' lips curled into a smile.  
     “Got you.”  
     He froze the footage and enlarged the image till the grainy sliver of face was almost life-size on the monitor. With a bit of cleaning up, it might even be possible to--  
      _Wait…_  
     Chris blinked at the screen.  
     An idea spoke to him, small and unlikely.  
      _No. That's fucking… stupid?_  
     He thought it over, squinting at the image. It _was_ a fucking stupid idea, and for a moment he considered taking a break. Maybe going downstairs to get another can of something obscenely sugary from one of the vending machines, stretching his legs and giving his eyes a break would help.  
     But…  
     Yeah, it was a stupid idea. But now it was there, niggling at him. So, fuck it, he'd humour himself, if only to put the idea to bed and move on.  
     Feeling doubtful, Chris opened a new browser window on the other monitor. He'd barely finished typing the letters F and A into the search bar before hitting return, Facebook springing to life.  
     He was met with his newsfeed, littered with asinine bullshit about this person’s new baby and that person’s latest trip to sunny fuck-knows-where. But that wasn’t where he needed to be. After clicking his own profile, Chris opened up his photos.  
     ‘Photos of You’  
     It was maybe two months ago that he was tagged in the photo. One of his classmates from middle school had been on a nostalgia binge, posting old pages from ancient-looking yearbooks; bad haircuts, braces and all.  
     He scrolled down until he found it, lips curling up with wry amusement when he spotted a familiar face. Fuck, he looked young. Same fucking glasses too, near enough. But he wasn't looking for himself.  
     Chris’ gaze wandered until he found what he was looking for.  
     Two rows down, three columns across. Brown hair, dark green eyes, tanned skin, slightly awkward smile. Untagged.  
     He blinked again.  
     Okay, so he hadn't imagined it. There was definitely something to the idea, if only a strange coincidence.  
     He enlarged the photo and dragged the browser window onto the other monitor, lining it up beside the enlarged image.  
     The shadow in the stilled footage made it difficult to see clearly, to know for sure, but his mind filled in the blanks as he turned up the definition, sharpening it. And, suddenly, Chris was looking at a face he hadn't seen for a long time. There were at least a dozen years between the two people, sure. But, side by side, there was no denying the resemblance.  
     Lit by the glare of the monitors, Chris frowned.  
     “...Josh?”


	3. Person of Interest

     “So?”  
     And there it was; the inevitable prompt that signalled the end of ‘just lunch’. Not that it was ever really ‘just lunch’ when it came to Ashley. Not these days.  
     “What?” Chris asked, feigning ignorance.  
     But Chris wasn't fooling anyone. Their lunch date had plodded along at a leisurely pace; pleasantries and small talk that tiptoed around the real conversation yet to be had. They both knew it.  
     “What's this really about?”  
     “That obvious?” Chris asked, lowering his drink.  
     “Always is.”  
     Chris paused, trying to figure out where to begin. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”  
     “Really?” Ashley asked, giving him that familiar ‘no shit’ look.  
     “Yeah.”  
     “It's not every day you come to me for help,” she murmured thoughtfully, fingers idly toying with the salt shaker. “Usually I'm the one buying _you_ lunch. It’s kinda nice being on this side of the table.”  
     “Yeah, I bet. So--”  
     “Wait, wait…” Ashley interrupted, cutting Chris’ words short with a raised hand. “Let me just enjoy this for a moment.” She took a deep breath, smug smile broadening when Chris threw her a look before she let it go. “Okay, I’m done. How can I help?”  
     “I’m looking for someone.”  
     “Have you tried calling the police?” she asked innocently.  
     Chris threw her a look; amused, but unimpressed. “Funny.”  
     “Sorry.” Her teasing smile softened to something a little more genuine, and Chris could see that she was switching gears; slipping seamlessly into work mode. “Is this a work thing or a personal thing?”  
     “Bit of both?”  
     “Go on.”  
     “Okay. So, it’s not that I don’t know where to start. I mean, I’ve looked. _Really_ looked. But I can’t find him listed anywhere. Didn’t even know he was in town. It’s like he’s a ghost or something. No address here or the surrounding States, no phone number--”  
     “No accounts?”  
     “No bank accounts or utilities. The best I could do was his last known address. His parent’s old place from, like, a billion years ago, and they don’t live there anymore.” Chris’ frown deepened. “No social media. Nothing. It’s like he just fucking vanished.”  
     “Or died?” Ashley ventured softly.  
     “Checked the death certs. Seriously, I don't know where to go from here.”  
     It wasn’t an exaggeration. He’d spent the best part of a month looking whenever he found the time between his assignments, secretly pursuing his hunch. With Taylor checking in on him with increasing regularity, it was becoming difficult to fend off the inevitable with the same old ‘I'm looking into it.’ But it wasn’t the time to reveal his hand. Not yet.  
     “Does this person have a name?”  
     “Yep.”  
     Ashley waited for Chris to continue, but when the blond left it at that, she knew she wasn't going to get any more from him.  
     “Is he a person of interest?”  
     Chris seemed to ponder the question, or at least to deliberate over how much he wanted to divulge. Ashley suspected the latter.  
     “To me, I guess? I’m just…” Chris searched for the right word, finally settling on “...curious.”  
     At this, Ashley cocked her head. There was a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, like he'd confirmed something for her. “Does Matt Taylor know you're talking to me about this? I heard he’s heading this thing up.”  
     “...How do you know that?”  
     “You just told me. So, homicide, huh?”  
     “Fuck… Come on, Ash. Really?”  
     “Lucky guess.” She gave him a slight shrug, but there was no apology there.  
     Chris sighed. Ashley always had a knack for getting the information she needed, one way or another. Hell, it was the very reason he’d thought to approach her about this in the first place. But it was also the reason she was difficult to talk to when it came to anything involving work. Sometimes their conversations felt like navigating a labyrinth filled with missing paving stones, designed to trip him up. Granted, he’d fallen for a really fucking obvious trick this time, but she was good. He’d only been half-joking when he’d suggested a career in the force to her.  
     “Not yet,” Chris conceded finally. “I get the feeling he doesn’t like half-finished theories.”  
     “Interesting…” Ashley stroked her chin, taking pleasure in the eye roll she received in response. “Show me yours and I'll show you mine?”  
     Chris smirked. “Tempting. You first.”  
      “Well, I know something has the department’s collective panties in a bunch. Something that’s got everybody on lockdown.”  
     “In short, you don't know anything.”  
     “I know Vice is involved.”  
     Chris looked at her, eyes narrowing momentarily while he tried to anticipate another trap or trick question. But there was a confidence to her claim that rang true this time.  
     “And how, pray tell, do you know that?”  
     “You think you're the only guy with a badge who takes me out to lunch?”  
     The statement gave life to curiosity, but Chris brushed it off. It wasn’t a jealousy thing, at least not in a straightforward, obvious sense. It was no secret that Ashley knew other people in the department. After all, it was how they’d met in the first place: a poorly-researched attempt at matchmaking by a work colleague who didn’t know any better. Sure, Chris liked redheads, they’d gotten that much right. But Ashley was a little lacking in a few other important attributes that Chris looked for in a date, rendering the whole thing platonic. Still, they’d both laughed about it and he’d made a friend out of it, so it wasn’t all bad. But the question remained - who else was she talking to?  
     “What can you tell me?” Ashley asked.  
     “There’s not much to tell yet, nothing solid. It’s a work in progress. A _big_ work in progress.”  
     “Oh, well, now you _have_ to tell me.”  
     “I can’t. Not yet. Sorry, Ash.”  
     Chris met Ashley’s gaze across the table and watched her regard him curiously. He could tell she was trying to figure out her next line of questioning, planning her offensive. But this wasn’t entirely about the case anymore, for Chris at least. It was tough, this balancing act of sharing just enough. He needed to refocus her attention; for her to be helpful, not probing. But, knowing Ashley, a little give and take would probably do it. You scratch my back and all that.  
     “Off the record?”  
     Ashley’s ears pricked up at those three little words and she leaned forward in her chair. “Of course.”  
     “Say it.”  
     “Off the record,” she promised, placing her hand on her chest.  
     “Potentially, there’s a big story here. It’s… unusual. I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it before.”  
     Ashley’s eyes lit up and he could practically see her mentally arranging the headline. He’d gotten her interest. “How unusual?”  
     Chris smothered a smile and made a show of deliberating over what to tell her. “The victims are-- ... _were_ all criminals.”  
     “Okay… So, what are we talking about here? A turf war? A gangland thing?”  
     “That’s not what we’re thinking right now.”  
     Ashley watched him, definitely curious now, questions forming behind her eyes. Chris could tell she was hooked.  
     “I’ve already said too much. When I can, maybe you’ll get more.”  
     “Maybe?”  
     “Maybe yes, maybe no,” Chris said coolly, not quite able to suppress the self-satisfaction tugging at his lips as he sat back in his seat, oozing exaggerated nonchalance.  
     “Are you always such a tease?”  
     “You love it,” Chris replied with a wiggle of his eyebrows, smile broadening to a grin when Ashley shook her head to herself.  
     “This person you’re looking for. You think he has something to do with it?”  
     “Would you help me if I did?”  
     “Can’t help you much without a name.”  
     And, finally, there they were again; the place their lunches usually ended up. Stalemate. Of course, it would be easier if he just gave her the name, but Chris already knew what would happen. A slave to professional curiosity, it wouldn’t be long before Ashley was chasing down a story without him.   
     “Advice now, names later?” Chris countered.  
     After a moment of consideration, Ashley extended her hand across the table. “Deal.”  
     Chris shook it then picked up his half-eaten sandwich and settled back in his seat, giving her time to think.  
     “Well, if I was trying to track someone down…” Ashley trailed off, running her fingers thoughtfully through her hair while she mulled it over. “Are there any family members you can contact?”  
     “Yeah, that’s an option. Not sure I want to go that route if I can help it though.”  
     “You’ve just been searching for his first name?”  
     “Come on, give me some credit. First name, last name. Variations on it.”  
     She fell silent again, peering down at the remnants of her lunch before meeting Chris’ gaze. “Does he have a middle name? Sometimes people put their records in their middle name.”  
     “...Is that common?”  
     She shrugged, looking pleased with herself. “Oldest trick in the book.”  
     “Huh…”  
     Ashley’s smile broadened when she saw that epiphany moment, something clicking as Chris stared off into space thoughtfully; connecting dots, mental cogs and gears turning.  
     “Hey, you owe me.”  
     Smiling softly, Chris met her gaze. “We’ll see.”


	4. Commensalism

     I wake up on the couch and the change in scenery gives life to a jolt of panic. It rides high in my chest, tight and urgent despite the fug, until I see it: the hypodermic on the coffee table, just out of reach, contents depleted.  
     I breathe in. Exhale relief.  
     It’s a good sign, I hope.  
     The world is sideways while I search for my phone - for some indication of _when_ I am, now that the where has been confirmed - but it eludes me. My fingers brush against the floorboards beneath the couch and catch the edge of the remote. I lazily turn it over, click it, and watch the TV light up silently across the room. A news anchor looks back at me - all fake smile and over-styled hair - but I ignore him, bleary gaze wandering to the time and date at the bottom of the screen.  
     It's Monday morning. I've lost a day somehow.  
     Sitting up slowly, I allow myself time to adjust; regaining control of my senses again, one by one. First comes sight, gradually clearing, then sound. My breath is slow and sluggish, breaking the usual white noise of the apartment - the hum of the fridge, the soft sigh of the air-conditioner - and the distant traffic from the streets below, muffled by thick shutters.   
     Next comes smell; a throwback to the olfactory prowess of animal ancestors who had a better grasp of such things. It's faint but there; that sweet metallic tang mingling with the leather couch and my own ripe body.  
     I look down at myself. I’m wearing clothes - underwear and a t-shirt - and I guess I must've been with it enough to figure that much out when I returned. Though, judging by my exposed skin, it seems like a shower must have been beyond me. But I've woken up in worse places. To worse situations.  
     I check my stained hands, flexing my fingers and toes, and everything seems to be okay. I ache all over, body stiff and head groggy, but nothing’s broken. No bullet wounds. No charred flesh. Not even cuts this time, hidden beneath the grime. But that doesn’t mean I’m off the hook. Now I'm on clean up duty.  
     But that can wait.  
     I'm so thirsty, despite my heavy stomach. I swallow, the gesture sticking thickly in my throat, and it feels like I’m trying to gulp down a baseball. Mouth dry and tight, it’s all I can think about.   
     My legs are wobbly and stiff at the same time from lack of use, but I manage to make my way over to the fridge, bare feet padding across the tile. I open a carton of OJ and drain it, Adam’s apple bobbing along the length of my throat as I greedily swallow it down, letting it spill down my chin onto my t-shirt, but I don’t care. Only once it’s empty do I come up for air.  
     Something occurs to me in the quiet that follows and the panic returns, but it’s quickly muted to mild unease. A few steps and I’m at the door. I check the locks and bolts, and give the reinforced wood a firm pat. Not out of necessity, but because it feels reassuring; a comfort thing by this point. A habit. One of many. Satisfied, I leave the room behind.  
     And now for the hard part. The big reveal.  
     I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and wonder how the fuck I managed to get home without raising suspicion. I guess I can’t be sure I did. My hair could be chalked up to bedhead if I didn't know better, but oversleeping doesn't account for the dark brown smears painting my chin and chest, seeping through the material of my shirt; face and arms flecked with dried blood.  
     Not mine.  
     Scrutinising my reflection, it’s only now I realise something’s out of place, besides the obvious. Standing there with my t-shirt on backwards and inside out, label sticking up from my collar, I laugh despite myself. I tried, at least.  
     Yes, my roommate had a party; really went to town on our shared territory and left me to pick up the pieces. And if I don't laugh about the little things, I'll cry.  
     My attention returns to the sorry state of my hands; nails ragged, bearing a thick, unappealing line of dirt and far more sinister grime. I run the orange stick beneath them, mind elsewhere, relying on muscle memory while I dig deeper than I should until it’s gone.  
     I want it out. All of it.  
     My mouth feels dirty. Sullied. Dental floss wound around my fingers, I work it between my teeth and try not to dwell on what it dislodges; strands and clumps falling into the sink. I don't look, merely wash it away with the turn of a faucet. But feigning ignorance doesn’t help. It never does.  
     And then I start to remember - the part I dread - but it's the price I pay for surviving. I remember exactly how the blood got beneath my nails. I remember the feeling of flesh; hot and wet against my tongue, bones snapping between my teeth. I remember the taste. _Fuck_ , I remember the taste...  
     Leaning on the basin, I close my eyes, feel that familiar pang of self-loathing and swallow it down. I shake the memories away, repulsed by the conflicting emotions they stir up, and I try to kid myself that this benefits us both. But I know exactly what I get out of this. Nothing. Nothing, really.  
     But I'm still here. That has to count for something.   
     I brush my teeth, then start all over again, spitting froth against the enamel; another step in the ongoing purge. Then mouthwash. So much mouthwash, stinging my gums. I suppose someone could chalk it up to obsessive dental hygiene, but it's a must on days like this.  
     I pull off my shirt and step out of my shorts; clothes falling away like old skin as I get into the shower. The scalding water circles the drain beneath my feet, the colour of rust; swirls of red washing away as I scrub myself clean until my skin is pink and raw from the effort. And I emerge feeling nicely worn down.  
     Yes, my roommate left a mess behind; flesh between my teeth and blood-splattered skin. It left me work to do. But it also left a gift behind. The itch is gone and, for the first time in a while, I feel sated. It's not a hangover this time, like it used to be. No longer do I wake up feeling quite so devastated by it; so tired and ruined and drained. With time it's gotten better. Now that we've made amends, our relationship is vaguely civilised. Now that we have an understanding it cuts me some slack, and I am unharmed, for now.  
     My lips are bitten and red, like I'm fighting off a cold, but there's colour in my cheeks where before there were only dark circles and tired lines. I put the bracelets back on and cover up my wrist. Looking in the mirror, smearing steamed up glass with pruned fingers, I am me again.  
     Just me and my problems.  
     Dressed in fresh clothes, I return to the couch and light a cigarette, settling back against the cushions, drink in hand. The bottle sits expectantly on the coffee table; my own brand of self-medication.  
     Breakfast.  
     My eyes wander across the wall, taking in the fruits of our labour, and I’m overcome by an unfamiliar sense of achievement, of progress, where before there was only regret. This is my side of the bargain. I am the one who tells us where to go now.  
     And for the first time in a while, I feel normal. As normal as it gets, anyway.  
     It's Monday. I am me.   
     And I am unharmed.


	5. Darkcutter

     Chris’ phone buzzed on the nightstand, intruding on the quiet of his Sunday morning. Reaching out from beneath the covers, he felt around blindly, grouching at the sound until he found it. He swiped the screen and cancelled the call, but the silence was short-lived. No sooner had his arm retreated beneath the comforter than it started ringing as insistently as before.  
      _Oh come_ on…  
     Chris picked it up - prepared to do the same again - but hesitated. Even without his glasses he could make out the four blurry letters lighting up the screen. Reluctantly, he answered.  
     “What?”  
     “What, no hello?” Munroe asked, amused.  
     “Sorry,” mumbled Chris. He glanced at his phone. “D’you know what time it is?”  
     “As someone who’s been working his ass off since six-thirty yesterday, yeah, I actually do.”  
     Yawning, Chris edged farther up the bed and propped himself up against the pillows. Knuckling the sleep from his eye, he sniffed and tried to get his head on straight. “What’s up?”  
     “Fieldwork.”  
     “Huh?” Chris frowned, reaching for his glasses. “I’m not working today.”  
     “You are now.”  
     “Can’t it wait till--”  
     “Nuh-uh. This is high priority shit and I want you in on it.”  
     Glasses on, Chris checked the time again and stifled a sigh, feeling tireder for the knowledge. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen five a.m. but it was something he could live without.  
     “Really, man?”  
     “Yup. How does some overtime sound?”  
     Chris swallowed and sniffed again. “You cleared it with--”  
     “All signed off and ready to go.”  
     It was typical. Some days, it took the detective an age to get back to Chris about anything, especially when it came to red tape. But if Munroe needed something? Well, that was a different story.  
     Chris was about to give voice to the gripe, but another thought piqued his curiosity. It was rare to be called out into the field and even rarer when it came to ungodly hours like this. “What d’you need me for?”  
     “Cell phones, security footage. You know, geek stuff.”  
     Chris grudgingly kicked back the covers and turned to sit on the edge of the bed. A sly yet weary smile played on his lips. “You want me pretty bad, huh?”  
     Munroe huffed laughter down the phone. “Always.”  
     “Hmm…” Chris rolled his neck. The prospect of getting out of bed was still unappealing at best. “Do I have a choice?” he asked hopefully.  
     “What do _you_ think?” Munroe smirked through a rumble of fresh laughter. “There’s a coffee downstairs with your name on it, if that helps.”  
     “Down… what?”  
     “Look outside.”  
     Chris got to his feet and crossed the bedroom to the window. Slipping his fingers between the slats, he peeked through the blinds. It was still dark outside, though the promise of morning had begun to brighten the horizon. In the twilight, there was no mistaking the squad car parked across the street from his apartment building.  
     “You sent a car?” Chris asked, letting the blinds fall closed.  
     “Don’t say I never get you anything.”  
     “Hah.”  
     “Seriously though, it’s important. We need this thing processed fucking _yesterday_. It’s…” Munroe fell quiet. “...We’ve got another one. Like before.”  
     Chris turned on the bedside lamp then paused, brow furrowing. “You mean...?”  
     It was a vague statement; Munroe could’ve been referring to anything. But the detective didn’t need to say more than that, the sudden seriousness of his tone speaking volumes, filling in the blanks. It had been the talk of the department ever since the grisly discovery at the salon just over a month prior: the massacre that nobody was supposed to talk about outside the station. The very same case that kept Chris working late in the hope of satisfying his own curiosity.  
     “Yeah. I’m already onsite. It’s…” Munroe laughed grim disbelief. “It’s a fucking mess. Just get dressed and get your ass over here, okay?”  
     “Okay. Gimme ten.”  
     “You’ve got five.”  
     And with that, Munroe hung up.

~*~

     Chris’ coffee was drained dry by the time the blond stepped out of the squad car. The sun was starting to rise, but the lights of the other emergency vehicles already parked by the curb lit up the early morning, colouring the sidewalk with splashes of red and blue.  
     He was in a shitty neighbourhood, no matter how you dressed it up. Even without the knowledge of what might be inside, the house at the centre of attention looked shady as hell. The surrounding area was cordoned off by police tape, but it did little to stop neighbours peering out of their windows at the street below. Officers stood around the perimeter, one or two answering the questions of curious onlookers while the rest silently surveyed the area.  
     It was busy and sure, Chris was used to busy. Back at the department, he couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into someone. But this was different. He rarely had cause to see his colleagues at work out in the big wide world beyond the station. It was strange seeing everyone so switched on, so _serious_.  
     Chris approached an officer at the barrier and, with a nod of acknowledgement, the woman stepped aside. Chris ducked under the tape. Midway to the house, he stopped.  
     A gurney emerged from the doorway and Chris watched with grim fascination as two men wheeled it along the drive to the coroner’s van. The HRP stretched along the length of the gurney - held in place by fastened straps - but something was off about it; the misshapen body bag bulging out in places and running strangely thin at others. So much so that, if Chris didn’t know what was probably inside, it could have been mistaken for a glorified trash bag. He looked on as the men loaded up the van.  
     With the way clear, Chris walked over to the officer standing guard by the front door. The man looked pale and distracted, but when Chris approached, he seemed to remember himself and scrutinised the blond warily. Chris didn’t blame him. With little time to get ready, Chris had thrown on whatever vaguely acceptable clothing came to hand. He’d managed to find a shirt, at least. But, hidden beneath a crumpled sweater, he hardly exuded the same professionalism as the man regarding him.  
     “Chris Hartley, I'm-- Is Munroe--”  
     “Chris! About time.”  
     The detective’s disembodied voice cut Chris’ question short. A moment later, Munroe appeared in the doorway. The officer stepped aside and Chris entered the house, but found his way blocked once more.  
     “Whoa, wait a minute.”  
     Chris looked at Munroe curiously, then at the folded plastic pressed against his chest beneath the brunette’s palm. “Huh?”  
     “You’re going to need these,” Munroe said, gesturing to his feet.  
     The detective was dressed a little more appropriately than Chris, but the effect was negated somewhat by the plastic covering his feet.  
     “Oh.”  
     Leaning against the wall, Chris slipped the plastic covers over his shoes.  
     Meanwhile, Munroe checked his watch. “Five thirty-six,” he said, and Chris saw the officer by the door make a note of it. Satisfied, the detective’s attention returned to Chris. “Are you ready to work?”  
     “I’m not exactly here for a good time.”  
     Munroe threw him a tired smile. “Come on.”  
     Chris followed the detective down a corridor alongside what he supposed passed for a living room, though it was difficult to imagine anyone actually living in it. Trash littered the floor - liberally strewn about between the cheap, worn-out furniture - and the portable lights brought in by forensics only highlighted the peeling paintwork and ugly yellow tinge of nicotine-stained walls. A coverall-clad investigator glanced up at them before returning her attention to the grubby couch.  
     An odour hung heavy in the air, growing stronger with every step. It smelt like the sharp tang of chemicals; some kind of cleaning product mingling with something else; something metallic and unnaturally familiar that set Chris’ teeth on edge.  
     “What _is_ that?” Chris asked, wrinkling his nose.  
     But Munroe didn’t linger, the question left unanswered as he walked on with Chris trailing behind him. Farther along the corridor, their destination became apparent - a backdoor leading outside - but another glance to his left stopped Chris in his tracks.  
     Noticing Chris' absence, Munroe backtracked and stood beside him in the doorway. With a sigh, he placed his hand on Chris’ shoulder.  
     “Welcome to the big leagues, Hartley.”  
     If he’d thought the living room was a mess, it was nothing compared to the sight that met Chris then. It was a kitchen, or at least it _had_ been, but now it resembled something else altogether. It looked like a natural disaster had hit; knocking aside the kitchen table and rusted patio chairs. Rubber tubing, discarded gloves and the smashed glass of burnt out beakers and misused Pyrex lay lost amid the rest of the detritus; everything broken beyond repair. A few stray bullet holes marred the cracked tiles and paintwork, few and far between, and the trash bags covering the window were ripped open, letting in a draft.  
     “ _Jesus_ , Mike…”  
     Blood. It was everywhere Chris looked - on the floor, the walls, the ceiling - staining the off-white counters; smeared across the discoloured linoleum; so much it seemed impossible. But that wasn’t what held Chris’ attention.  
     “Yeah,” Munroe murmured thoughtfully, following Chris’ gaze. “Was worse when I got here, if you can believe it. He’s the last of them.”  
     Hanging from the back of the door across the room, the man resembled a grotesque Halloween decoration. Under normal circumstances, perhaps the coat hook wedged into the back of his skull wouldn’t have been able to hold the man’s weight, but there was little left to weigh him down anymore. Everything below his torso was gone; his ribs jutting out between strips of tattered flesh, leaving the hollowed out remains of his chest behind. His arms hung limp against the stained wood.  
     Standing there, wide eyed and stunned, Chris couldn’t speak.  
     “I knew the guy,” Munroe continued quietly, sounding a little wearier than before. “He was only nineteen, just a kid. Not the brightest bulb but…” he trailed off to a shrug.  
     Chris looked at the man’s face again, drawn to the cold dead eyes staring back at him. His gaze wandered to two handprints smeared across a rare void on the floor only a few feet from where he stood. He followed them and saw the red streaks taper off momentarily before they merged to form a larger pool of blood.  
     “Fuck…” he mumbled, unsure what else to say.  
     He’d seen some pretty gory stuff from the comfort of his desk, far enough removed to lessen its impact. But this? Up close, it was a little too real.  
     “Don’t worry, there's nothing for you in there. This place is DNA central right now without us adding to it.”  
     “Yeah… yeah, I--”  
     “Chris?”  
     Chris turned instinctively toward the sound of Taylor’s voice and found the detective standing in the corridor behind them. Taylor gave him a curt nod then turned his attention to Munroe.  
     “You’re still here.” It wasn’t a question.  
     “The metric fuck-ton of narcotics we bagged says I'm invited to this party.” Munroe’s wry smile broadened. “Stamp for re-entry and everything.”  
     Unimpressed, Taylor let the comment slide and glanced at the corpse. “Friend of yours?”  
     “Something like that.”  
     “Hm. Figures.” Taylor scrutinised the scene for a moment. “Chris?”  
     Chris blinked. He was still a little dazed, but managed to answer. “Yeah?”  
     “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but this is a _homicide_ investigation. I’m primary on this. Any reports need to come to me.”  
     “Hey, he--” Munroe began.  
     “Don’t you have a hooker to question or something?” Taylor cut in.  
     Munroe looked set to answer, mouth opening in protest. But, clamping his bottom lip between his teeth, he bit back the retort and met the comment with a smile. “Maybe later.”  
     Barely concealing his disdain for the brunette, Taylor looked to Chris once more. “Let me know as soon as you find something.”  
     “Right.” Chris nodded. “Right, got it.”  
     Chris watched Taylor head back along the corridor until a hand on his arm jolted him free of his thoughts.  
     “If anyone needs some time with a hooker, am I right?” Munroe muttered with a smirk. “Asshole.”  
     Chris frowned distractedly, only half-listening. “Huh?”  
     “You okay? Need a minute?” Munroe asked, noting the sickly colour the blond had turned. “I know this isn’t your usual--”  
     “No… no, let’s just… What have you got for me?”  
     “This way. Watch your step.”  
     Chris followed Munroe outside, grateful to leave the scene and odour behind, already feeling better for the fresh air. A table had been set up in the dingy backyard, home to trays and plastic evidence bags lit by portable lamps. Two investigators stood beside it logging their findings while another detective looked on. She lifted her gaze when she heard them approach, greeting them with a jut of her chin.  
     “Chris, the computer guy,” Munroe explained, gesturing to the blond.  
     “We’ve met,” she replied, offering Chris a fleeting smile.  
     Chris wasn’t very familiar Friedman, but she seemed nice enough, and pretty good at her job from what he could gather. Regardless, she put up with Munroe’s shit day in day out, which was more than could be said for most.  
     Glancing past Friedman, Chris perused the table. “That’s... a lot of drugs.”  
     “One pound, three ounces. Ain’t she pretty?” Munroe quipped, picking up the bulging evidence bag. “She’s got my eyes.”  
     “What is it?”  
     “Ambyex,” Friedman replied, taking the bag of blue pills from her partner and returning it to the table with a look of mild annoyance. “We still need to test if it’s legit or not, but my money’s on yes.”  
     Chris shrugged and shook his head, inviting more.  
     “It’s prescribed for ADHD and a few other things,” Munroe explained. “Some college kids use it as a study drug. Chemically, it’s pretty much meth’s kissing cousin.”  
     “Yeah?”  
     “Hey, if you can get it from your doctor it’s all good, right?” Munroe smirked.  
     “We’ve seen it before, but for a place like this to have this much?” Friedman looked down at the pills thoughtfully. “Something’s not right. This stuff is jacked from somewhere.”  
     “Wherever it’s from, they could have sold it as is and still made plenty. So why cut it?” mused Munroe.  
     “They got greedy,” Friedman replied simply, as if it was obvious.  
     “They’re not the only ones. The state of this place…” Munroe shook his head to himself. “It’s like a fucking slaughterhouse in there.”  
     Chris shifted uncomfortably. “Who were they?” he asked, changing the subject.  
     “Low level lowlifes, just cooking and cutting and slinging. But they’re part of something bigger,” said Munroe. “We’ve been investigating them for the best part of nine months and someone came in and ripped them a new asshole right under our nose. Fucking figures.”  
     Chris’ thoughts returned to the man pinned to the door like a post-it note. Fighting back a fresh swell of nausea, he pushed the image aside.  
     “Where are the phones?” Chris asked, noticing their absence.  
     “They’re taking them back now.”  
     Chris frowned at the detectives. “Then… couldn’t I have just gone to the lab?”  
     “Yeah, maybe,” Munroe conceded, “but I want your eyes, you know? I need to know if there’s anything we’ve overlooked; something that hasn’t occurred to us from a tech point of view.”  
     “What do you mean?”  
     Munroe took a breath and gave the blond a patient smile. “Okay. Let’s start again. Security.”  
     “This place has security?” Chris asked dubiously, gaze trailing across the crude graffiti covering the back wall.  
    “Yeah, if you can call it that. You see that there?” Munroe asked, pointing at the house.  
     Chris followed Munroe’s finger up to a small camera fixed to the wall above the backdoor.  
     “It looks like a shitty webcam or something, but we haven’t found any storage equipment for footage. Any ideas?”  
     “Does it work?”  
     “Well, it _looks_ fine. The lens is in one piece. Can't tell if it's been tampered with though.”  
     “Wait, no one's checked?”  
     “Hey, we've been processing this place since yesterday. Not sure if you noticed, but it’s been sorta busy.”  
     Chris took a few steps towards the door and peered up at the small device. With something to concentrate on - distracting him from the gore inside - he found his focus returning. True to Munroe’s word, it looked like a cheap store-bought camera; something you could pick up at Best Buy for under fifty dollars. On first glance, it appeared intact.  
     “Why wouldn't whoever did this take it down or break it?” Chris asked.  
     “Good question,” Friedman replied. “We figure either it's a dud meant to deter and the suspect knew it or they knew the victims. There’s no sign of forced entry and whatever went through that window was heading out, not in.”  
     Chris glanced at the kitchen window. Sure enough, the ground beneath the ripped trash bags was covered in shards of glass. With a pensive frown, he looked at the door again.  
     “No wires,” he said finally.  
     “So… what? You think it’s a dummy?” asked Munroe.  
     Cocking his head to one side, Chris stared up at the camera. An idea was starting to form; not quite defined yet, but it was coming.  
     “No.” He glanced over his shoulder at the detectives. “The cell phones. What are they? Smartphones or…?”  
     Friedman searched her memory. “Four burners, one iPhone. Why?”  
     When Chris fell quiet, Munroe stood beside him and peered up at the camera. “What are you thinking?”  
     “Well, I mean, there are security apps you can link to cameras to monitor your home on the go or whatever. Maybe there’s no equipment because they were using a cell?”  
     At that, Munroe’s face lit up. Despite his tired features, he looked genuinely pleased.  
     “See? What did I tell you?” he said to Friedman, turning to Chris with a grin. “ _That’s_ why you're here; shit like that.”

~*~

     It was late-morning by the time Chris began examining the phones - the SIM cards eventually sent over to him once the lab completed their initial tests for physical evidence. Three hours and two more coffees later, he was still working his way through them. Two of the phones were dead with little hope of recovery, and the two burners that worked were dead ends from homicide’s point of view; home to coded messages that meant little without a cipher to work from. They were all business, maybe something Vice could follow up on, sure. But the iPhone?  
     Chris checked the next photo.  
     The phone’s owner was posing in a bathroom with a wad of bills in one hand and a blunt in the other.  
      _Another fucking selfie._  
     Unlike the burners, the smartphone yielded little of interest to anyone. Chris had trawled the usual avenues - messages, social media accounts, emails - and though a security app was installed, no footage from the camera was saved. He’d decided to send it off later for further analysis to see if anything could be retrieved from the cloud, but it looked doubtful.  
     With a sigh, Chris scanned the photo for anything of note before moving on to the next.  
     Shirt off this time, blunt lit, smoke hoops.  
      _Bit of variety, at least._  
     The stupidity of the guy was laughable. For all the precautions the victims had taken to cover their tracks, this guy just didn’t seem to get it.  
      _He’s probably dead._  
     It was a sobering thought, one Chris tried not to dwell on, though it was difficult when he was reminded of what he'd seen at the house every time he saw the guy’s face. But that wasn’t the only thought distracting Chris while he worked.  
     In silence, Chris updated his notes. His mind wandered.  
     After weeks of searching, he’d begun to doubt himself; the idea that Josh had something to do with the salon case seeming more implausible by the day. It was just a hunch to begin with and he didn’t exactly have much to support his theory. His _ridiculous_ theory, he hastened to add. Sure, the pictures looked similar, but other than that, what else was he actually going on? A nagging hope?  
      _Hope?_  
     That seemed like a weird way of putting it. After all, having his suspicions confirmed would mean that Josh was involved.  
     Did he _want_ Josh to be involved?  
     Brushing the thought aside, Chris returned his attention to the photos. The seemingly endless stream of selfies had thankfully come to an end. Instead, he found himself looking at a puppy. It looked like a Boston Terrier or maybe a French Bulldog, Chris couldn’t tell. Either way, a slight smile tugged at his lips. Gathered up in its owner’s arms, the thing was fucking _tiny._  
      _Mr. Selfie has a sensitive side._  
     He made a note then moved on to the next photo, then the next; more puppy photos. He glanced at them and made more notes, pausing briefly on a photo of the dog sitting on the sidewalk, dwarfed by the baseball cap perched on its head.  
     Chris rolled his shoulders and watched the slight adjustments made to the hat as he scrolled on. A dozen or so photos later, he stopped.  
     The shots were taken from outside the front of the house, that much Chris recognised. Most of them featured little more than a patch of sidewalk, but some had a wider view and showed glimpses of the apartment building opposite. There were cars parked along the street. That wasn’t unusual, but one in particular stood out, drawing Chris' eye. A white van.  
     Chris looked through the images and found more glimpses of the vehicle. It was there in a selfie taken just two days before. Working backwards, Chris found it again a few days before that. It was parked up in a different spot - facing the other way - but it was there, just off-screen with its back wheel in shot.  
     Again, none of it was unusual. Other vehicles showed up in multiple pictures too.  
      _What? Why does it matter?_  
     Chris' thoughts returned to the house. Reluctantly, he replayed his visit and tried to make sense of it. The street had been filled with squad cars, no van other than the coroner’s in sight. So why was it important?  
      _You’ve seen it before._  
     But where?  
      _“It’s like a fucking slaughterhouse in there.”_  
     And then it clicked. He didn’t know why it triggered a thought - one he didn’t fully understand - but it was there; a connection.  
     Minimising the puppy photos, Chris ran through the footage from the first case until he found it: the same van parked up a few streets away from the salon on the day of the incident. The _very same fucking day._  
     Mind racing, Chris zoomed in, but was left disappointed. The van's license plates were obstructed from view by the cars parked either side. Undeterred, he opened the photos from the phone and tried again.  
     Still nothing.  
     Cleaning up one of the images, Chris squinted at the faded paintwork on the side of the van.  
     MEADOWBROOK MEAT CO. INC.  
      _Okay. No plates yet, but it’s something._  
     Chris looked up the company and frowned at his findings. The business still existed but wasn’t operating anymore; hadn’t for years, in fact.  
      _So why is one of their vans still running around? And…_  
     He read on.  
      _...Why does it still own property?_  
     A few paragraphs later, Chris corrected himself. It looked like the company had been bought out two years earlier, based on what he could glean from public records. But the new owner - Vincent Smith - had shut up shop and sold the company’s assets to an out of state party soon after. Why?  
      _I’m onto something here. I can fucking feel it._  
Chewing his thumbnail, Chris stared at the screen. He was missing something. Maybe if he dug around and found out more about Vincent--  
      _Wait._  
     Vincent Smith.  
      _“Meat’s meat...”_  
     He knew that name.  
     Another trigger, farfetched and unlikely; memories from a billion years ago that looked like B Movie gore and picked apart plot holes. Memories that felt an awful lot like Josh.  
      _A fake name? A… joke?_  
     Chris didn’t notice his foot tapping against the desk, too wrapped up in his train of thought.  
     More searching followed - business transactions, shareholder agreements - until he found what he was looking for: an old meat packing plant on the outskirts of town. It was awaiting demolition, sold under the pretence of developing the land into housing, though no effort had gone toward making good on that intention yet as far as Chris could tell.  
     He scrolled down the page and skimmed over the details of the contract until he reached the signature block. Sure enough, Vincent’s printed name and signature were present. And there beside it, under the buyer’s signature, written in neat caps...  
     Not quite believing his eyes, Chris read the name again.  
     JAMES WASHINGTON  
     It came to him then: the forgotten piece of trivia, that elusive middle name. It seemed so obvious in hindsight that he couldn’t believe he hadn't remembered it till then.  
     “James, huh?”  
     Ashley had been right after all.  
     Sinking back in his seat, Chris exhaled through a weary grin. He’d done it. He’d actually fucking done it, and he couldn’t help feeling pretty proud of himself. But the victory was short-lived, his smile faltering when the reality of what it meant slowly made itself known.  
     Josh was involved somehow, Chris was almost certain of it. There were too many dots joining up for it to be mere coincidence. Josh was involved and that… wasn’t good. He’d seen the house, had witnessed first-hand exactly what he was apparently accusing the other man of. But despite what Chris had discovered, it still seemed impossible.  
     Could Josh have actually done _that_?  
     Pride ebbed away as quickly as it came, replaced by unease. Chris leaned forward; the words on the screen blurring as he relaxed his eyes.  
      _What now?_  
     Chris picked up his phone. Taylor was running this thing and the news would certainly move the investigation forward. They had a suspect, or a lead at the very least; something promising to go on when all they’d met so far were dead ends. He’d found the link to Josh - had proven himself right - and now he knew how to find him. But...  
     Still, Chris hesitated.  
      _But what?_  
     Chris stared at the phone as though it might contain the answer.  
     There shouldn’t have been a ‘but’ - there was no alternative. The idea that he could be swayed by a lingering loyalty to a man he barely knew - a friendship that hadn’t seen the light of day for years - was ridiculous. It didn’t make sense. He had to tell Taylor.  
     And yet...  
     Slowly, Chris put down the phone.


	6. Lights Out

      _“Any plans for the weekend?”_  
      _“Nothing special.”_  
     It was an outright lie, but it had been enough to move the conversation along. After all, the truth wasn’t exactly appropriate watercooler talk.  
     Chris turned the flashlight over in his hand and tested the beam. Satisfied, he switched it off and picked up his backpack.  
     His weekends generally consisted of seeing friends, vegging out, or maybe catching up with the domestic crap he didn't get a chance to do during the week. By comparison, this weekend was a little… different.  
     Frowning thoughtfully, Chris ticked the items on his mental checklist off one by one. He had everything, as far as he remembered.  
     He looked at his watch. It was after midnight, probably late enough.  
      _Time to go._  
     He left the car behind.  
     His destination was just as unappealing under the cover of darkness as it had been hours before, bathed in dying light. The buildings were in a state of disrepair, long neglected and in dire need of fixing up or tearing down; the disused smokestacks standing black and ominous against the night sky, looming over the ragged outline of dilapidated rooftops. It was a great venue for urban exploration, if that’s what you were into; prime fodder for a cable TV ghost hunting show, for sure. But Chris wasn’t hunting ghosts.  
     He stopped beside the barrier, footsteps crunching to a halt. Compared to the buildings beyond, the barbed wire and high chain-link fence were relatively new additions.  
     He ran the beam of light over the faded metal signs fastened to the fence.  
     ME DOWB OOK MEAT C NC  
     Beside it, equally uninviting:  
     NO TRESPASSING  
     Neither sign instilled much confidence, but Chris was undeterred. He’d already checked for security measures. There were physical obstacles, sure, but no cameras or alarms.  
      _Lucky me._  
     Chris knelt down and shrugged the backpack from his shoulders. Holding the flashlight between his teeth, he rummaged inside until he found the bolt cutters.  
      _“Any plans for the weekend?”_  
     The fence gave way bit by bit with a series of satisfying clicks.  
      _Breaking into a derelict building. You know, the usual._  
     No, his colleagues probably wouldn’t appreciate the truth. But what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.  
      _You are in serious denial right now._  
     Chris brushed the thought aside. Denial was fine if you recognised it, right?  
      _Let’s go with yes for now._  
     Throwing a final glance over his shoulder, Chris returned the cutters to his bag then pulled back the metal and climbed through to the deserted forecourt, following the flashlight across the pockmarked ground, careful to avoid the cracks in the asphalt.  
     Crossing the yard, he couldn’t help thinking that maybe he should have told someone where he was. Phone reception out there wasn't great, and he knew for a fact that the facility wasn’t up to code. Chris was first to admit that he wasn’t exactly the most graceful of people. Throw a crumbling building into the mix and falling over or getting hurt was a very real possibility. But he was prepared, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.  
     Chris stopped beside a gap in one of the outer walls and checked his phone, pinching the screen to enlarge the image. He’d looked at it enough times to know roughly where he was, but it couldn’t hurt to double check.  
     The building plans were easy enough to get hold of if you knew where to look and didn’t mind adopting a very loose definition of what was technically ‘legal’.  
     Ashley would be proud.  
     Chris returned the phone to his pocket with a smirk.  
     Yes, she probably would be. He’d even considered telling her about his little excursion, but he didn’t want to get her mixed up in this. There would be too many questions and he just couldn’t give her answers. Not yet.  
     With his flashlight held out before him, Chris stepped inside.  
     As it turned out, ‘inside’ was perhaps a rather generous way of describing the room. The ceiling seemed sturdy enough, but one of the walls was gone, having fallen down some time before. According to the plans, he was in the retail room, whatever that was: one of the oldest parts of the facility. The natural world had taken hold; plants growing from the walls, weeds sprouting up from beneath the rubble, reclaiming the building. Looking around, it seemed like Chris wasn’t the first person to explore the ruins if the sun-bleached beer cans and tagged up brickwork were anything to go by.  
     There was nothing for him there.  
     Treading over debris, Chris pressed on through an open doorway to the darkness beyond.  
      _What is it you think you're going to find?_  
     There it was: the same nagging doubt that had kept him at home the night before ‘thinking it over’. He’d managed to overcome it, but it was finding its voice again in the dark. If he was honest, Chris wasn’t sure what he was going to find, but the decision to venture into the old plant sort of made sense. Without traffic or security cameras to check, taking the old school approach and going there in person seemed like the only option.  
     The flashlight glinted off the shattered windows; panes missing like teeth from a rotten mouth.  
      _What are you looking for?_  
     Maybe he didn’t know _exactly_ what he was looking for, but the plant wasn’t all creepy as fuck storage rooms and dilapidated holding pens. It wasn’t like he was wandering aimlessly; he had a destination in mind. There was a site manager's office, or at least there _had_ been. It was amazing what people hoarded away in old filing cabinets; things that might have escaped digitization. It was a long shot, but Chris’ long shots were paying off these days. They’d gotten him this far.  
     The light came to rest on a metal trough covered with suspicious brown stains.  
     Chris stopped and stared. His thoughts returned to blood-streaked linoleum and dirty countertops, to evidence bags and police tape. Alone in the dark, he could almost imagine the man’s sightless eyes looking back at him through the gloom.  
     He shook the image away.  
     No, errant ceiling tiles and hidden pitfalls weren’t his only concern. But he couldn’t let himself think about that.  
     More rooms came and went, each one host to new forms of decay; dirty copper pipes curling along the walls and industrial machinery that had long since ground to a halt. The darkness seemed thicker the deeper he went, impenetrable beyond the glare of his flashlight.  
     He entered a long room held up by concrete pillars and tarnished metal girders. Broken ceiling tiles littered the floor; jagged shards made orange by rust. On the other side of the room was a door.  
     Chris glanced behind him.  
     He was still alone.  
     Cautiously, he approached it and squinted at what he found. The other doors he’d encountered hung rotten off their hinges or were missing altogether, but this one was firmly shut; the first real obstacle he’d come up against in a while. But that wasn’t what caught his attention.  
      _Fancy._  
     The digital push button lock was out of place amid the decay; not brand new, exactly, but more advanced than everything else he'd seen. Frowning, Chris searched his memory. If the plans were correct, he was in the dry storage area. So this door led to…  
      _...The loading bay?_  
     Curiosity guided hesitant fingers.  
      _0\. 0. 0. 0._  
     Chris tried to turn the numbered lock, but was met with a disappointing rattle. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the darkness with the flashlight.  
     The coast was clear.  
      _1\. 2. 3. 4._  
     Still no luck.  
     Chris raised his hand to try again, but paused.  
      _What_ is _that?_  
     He could hear something; quiet and melodic. A voice, but it didn’t sound like a conversation. Standing there silently, Chris tried to make sense of it.  
      _...Music?_  
     That couldn’t be right.  
     Another quick glance over his shoulder and his focus returned to the lock.  
      _2\. 4. 6. 8._  
     Chris pressed the door, expecting to meet the same resistance, but it moved easily this time. He smiled to himself. People were predictably lazy when it came to such things. It was something he’d learned a lifetime ago: simple codes for little secrets.  
     The music grew louder as he slowly peered around the door. His eyes widened.  
     The lights were on.  
     That alone should have been deterrent enough. He couldn’t deny that the compulsion to turn back was pretty fucking strong.  
     Biting back his apprehension, Chris opened the door.  
     ♪♫ _I gotta feel it in my blood, whoa oh… I need your touch, don't need your love, whoa oh..._ ♫♪  
     Chris’ eyes darted around the room. He was on a gangway a few feet above the ground, overlooking the scuffed painted arrows and faded road markings scrawled across concrete. Someone had rigged up several industrial spotlights on the level below. They threw strange shadows on the walls, their cables snaking across the ground to a packed heavy-duty extension cord. And there, parked up in the middle of it all…  
     He recognised it instantly: the faded logo, the discoloured paintwork. It was the van. _The_ van.  
     The dread was back, thick and heavy in his throat.  
     ♪♫ _I'm runnin' with the wind, a shadow in the dust… And like the drivin' rain, yeah, like the restless rust…_ ♫♪  
     The passenger window was wound down; classic ‘80s rock blasting from the tinny sound system within, echoing off the walls. A hose lay on the ground beside the open backdoors. It was still running; water pooling weakly around it.  
     Chris didn’t know how he could have missed the van. He’d spent long enough sitting in his car, teetering between bored and apprehensive as he watched the sun set behind the rundown building. Parked up by the roadside, hidden from view, he hadn’t seen anyone enter or leave. From outside, the buildings had been black impenetrable shapes; unbroken shadows untouched by illumination. It didn’t make sense. Was there another way in he hadn't known about?  
     However it had happened, one thing was clear. Someone was there, and Chris couldn’t help thinking he might know who it was.  
     He lingered uncertainly in the doorway, searching the shadows for signs of life, but finding none.  
      _Why are you still here?!_  
     Instinct told him to leave. But another voice spoke louder than his concern; a relentless curiosity he couldn’t silence. He needed answers. He was so fucking close.  
     Taking care over every step, Chris descended a ramp to the level below. He couldn’t see anyone, but knew full well that didn’t mean he was alone. Keeping to the shadows, he slowly circled the room until he was behind the van. It was empty - water dripping from the open doors - but that discovery did little to reassure him. Up close, Chris saw more wet patches on the ground and followed them with his gaze across the bay to the far wall. The footprints led to a door, slightly ajar. Beyond it, more darkness.  
     ♪♫ _And I want… and I need... and I lust... animal…_ ♫♪  
     His nerves returned, screaming at him to turn back. He’d come this far, but surely _this_ was the time to back off and cut his losses. Whoever was there could come back at any moment. Chris was pushing his luck and he knew it.  
      _This is a really bad fucking idea._  
     Somehow, he managed to ignore the doubt.  
     Senses on high alert, Chris slowly crossed the room and cautiously pushed the door open, shining the flashlight along the darkened corridor as he stepped inside.  
      _What now?_  
     He thought to call out. Maybe it was a security guard or--  
      _Stop kidding yourself._  
     Denial could only take you so far. Standing there, working up the nerve to move, Chris had officially reached his limit. And yet, the urge to say something, if only to ground himself, remained. A tentative ‘hello’ was on the tip of his tongue. But he didn’t get the chance to speak.  
     Without warning, the door closed behind him.  
     Chris spun on his heel, catching a glimpse of someone moving in the dark before they knocked the flashlight from his hand. The back of his head hit the wall hard enough to stun. Unseen fingers wrapped around his throat, squeezing it in a vice-like grip as they forced him back against the concrete, backpack jabbing awkwardly into his spine.  
     His eyes widened but saw nothing.  
      “Gnh--!”  
     Another hand found his wrist, pinning his arm to wall.  
      “Nn--!”  
     Chris tore at the fingers digging into his neck with his free hand, desperately struggling to prise them loose. He tried to speak, but the attempt was little more than a choked-up sound, lodged in his throat.  
     It was then that something dawned on Chris; a simple observation, but a very important one.  
     He couldn’t breathe.  
     Light-headed, Chris dug his hand into his back pocket until he found it; the cold black box heavy in his grip. Still struggling, he pressed it against his attacker’s stomach. The crackle of the current cut through the air, bright flashes of electricity sparking between them as the hold on Chris tightened before it fell away with a pained yelp.  
     Stun gun in hand, Chris sucked in a breath. There was no time for regret or a self-directed ‘I told you so’ as he fumbled on the ground for the flashlight, catching a glimpse of someone through the dark before it was knocked from his hand again.  
      _Josh???_  
     Footfalls echoed off the walls, growing more distant with every passing second.  
     Chris quickly retrieved the light again, coughing and wheezing as he shone it along the corridor just in time to see his attacker disappear into the next room.  
      “Wait!” Chris croaked, but his weak yell was ignored.  
     He was running before he knew it, sneakers pounding against the floor.  
      _What are you doing?!_  
     He didn’t have time to consider where he was going, but it didn’t matter. Leaving the corridor behind, Chris ran on into the unknown.  
     When he reached the next room, he stopped and searched between the rusty machinery with the flashlight, squinting at shadows. Gradually, the dark shapes of the room separated and he caught sight of his quarry up ahead.  
     His legs began to ache as he tried to close the gap between them.  
      _What will you do when you catch him?_  
     Chris didn’t have time to think about that. He didn’t _want_ to think about that.  
      _This isn’t a game._  
     The truth of that statement soon became horribly apparent. One misstep was all it took to throw Chris off balance. He fell, scraping his left arm on the uneven ground. The stun gun clattered to the floor as the flashlight rolled away.  
      _Shit!_  
     Chris clutched his arm, but there was no time to roll back his sleeve and inspect the damage. Distracted, he didn’t hear the footfalls slow.  
     Chris looked up, expecting to be alone, but he wasn’t. A lone figure stood in the blackness.  
     The man had stopped.  
     Chris scrambled on the ground for the stun gun, fingers brushing against the jagged edges of grimy broken tiles until he finally found it. With great relief, he snatched it up and held it out defensively in front of him while he got to his feet.  
     As if coming out of a trance, the figure turned away, hammering at the keypad beside the door.  
      _You’ve gotta do it._  
     Chris told himself he wouldn’t, not unless he had to. It was a last resort. But he was running out of options, that much was painfully clear.  
     He felt them through the walls, sensed them there. He followed their silent paths behind the brickwork. They were dormant for now, but...  
     It didn’t look like had a choice.  
     The flashlight was gone, but it didn’t matter. Chris didn’t need it anymore.  
      “Josh!”  
     The keypad crackled and hissed beneath the man’s fingertips, fizzing with one bright spark. Chris heard him curse and saw him recoil from the shock.  
     Chris’ hand tightened into a fist at his side.  
     He felt it: the familiar buzz creeping up his spine, the tingle in his skull, the static clinging to the nape of his neck. He tasted it: the bitter metal tang he couldn’t put into words. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there: the flicker of something bright and unnatural behind his eyes, made vivid blue by the current running through his veins.  
     With a thought, the dusty ceiling lights flickered on one by one, gradually gaining strength, throwing harsh light over the decaying room.  
      “Josh…” he began again, still catching his breath as he lifted his gaze to meet the dark green eyes staring back at him. “...We need to talk.”

~*~

     With the benefit of light, I see him, and I’m overcome by a strange, out of place recognition that only adds to my confusion. He shifts his weight, those eerie blue eyes searching my own for the very same recognition I’m trying hard to latch onto.  
     There’s something familiar about him; the way he carries himself, that voice. But my mind fights the obvious, repelling it despite the mounting evidence laid out before me.  
     He called me Josh.  
     It’s been a while.  
     I may not know him, but he knows me - the me I left behind - and that narrows the options. I’ve spent my years shedding the past like old skin, moving on to new names and places, but it seems like my efforts weren’t good enough.  
      “ _Josh_ ,” he presses, and there’s something hopeful, almost pleading in his tone, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to figure me out, too.  
     Deep down, I already know. I’ve known since the lights came up, but it seems so fucking surreal that I can’t quite bring myself to accept it.  
     I know him.  
      “...Chris?”  
     The word is laced with doubt, but I’m right. The way his face brightens with misplaced optimism and the short, sharp nods that follow. It’s confirmation, but I still can’t believe it.  
      “Yeah, J-- yeah, it’s…” An uncertain smile tugs at his mouth. “...Yeah.”  
     I feel like I’m hallucinating, like maybe I’ve gone too far this time. Maybe the years spent popping pills have finally caught up with me. Maybe I’ve finally fucking snapped. Part of me wouldn’t be surprised; it’s been a long time coming. But the lingering pain says otherwise; muscles aching like I've done a thousand sit-ups, fingertips smarting from the bite of electricity.  
     Somehow, this is real.  
     I have so many questions that I don’t know where to start, or even _how_ to start. Why is he here? How did he find me? Is he alone? _What_ is he? How did he…  
     ...How?  
     All I can do is stare.  
      “Look, I-- I just wanna talk.”  
     It’s a reasonable request. Manners dictate that we should catch up and ask the questions regular people ask each other about work, love life, kids or whatever niceties pass for civilised conversation. But this isn't a regular meeting. We’re not running into each other in a coffee shop or at the store. This isn’t a high school reunion. This isn’t _normal_.  
     I laugh nervously at the thought; an involuntary, regrettable sound.  
     No, none of this is normal. Then again, I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes hosing blood out the back of a van. I’m not the best judge of what passes for normal anymore.  
     I watch the glow fade from his eyes. His face relaxes as he unclenches his hand. But he’s still on guard. It’s there in the tension marking his shoulders. He’s putting his weight on his back foot as though he might need to leave at any moment. Despite his encouraging words, he seems nervous, maybe more than I am. He's defensive. Wary.  
     And he should be. We both should be.  
     I swallow and my gut tightens as an unwelcome truth makes itself known.  
     He knows.  
     He’s nervous because he knows. How much, I can’t be sure. But he knows _something_. Why else would he be here?  
     I’m tempted to give voice to the realisation, to pick at it like a scab and expose it to the air. But I don’t. Instead, I state the obvious.  
      “You're trespassing.”  
     The words are dumb - an impotent threat - but they take him off guard. Flustered, he manages to string a sentence together.  
      “I me-- yeah, I know, but--”  
     I look up at the lights. He's nowhere near a switch and neither am I. They shouldn’t be on. We should still be in darkness.  
      “How did you…?”  
     But I already know that, too. It's not an accident or a coincidence.  
     He's different.  
     He takes a step towards me and I back away, pressing myself against the locked door. Fear rises in my throat because I can’t be cornered like this. I don’t _do well_ cornered like this. I need this to happen on my terms, but I’m in no position to negotiate.  
     My heartbeat’s up, fluttering in my chest, giving life to another worry. He might be here alone, but I never am. My partner is always close by, waiting in the next room with its ear to the wall.  
     I have to keep it in the dark place.  
      “Hey, hey. It’s okay, I’m just…”  
     He’s talking, but I’m not listening; distracted by the black shape in his hand. He follows my gaze and senses my unease. Moving slowly, he places the stun gun on the ground, tapping it with his toe until it’s out of reach. It’s a show of trust, meant to inspire confidence, I’m sure. But trust is a rare commodity. One I haven't been able to afford for a long time.  
     He holds up his empty hands.  
      “See? Just talking. That’s all.”  
     I work hard to keep my composure as I concentrate on tracing the lines of his body. It doesn’t look like he has a gun. But maybe he doesn’t need one.  
     I nod and let him talk, giving myself a little breathing room and time to think. I watch his mouth move, words coming out, but they’re losing traction as time goes on. He doesn’t seem to know what he wants. He hasn’t thought this through. I can sense uncertainty behind his appeasing gestures and calming sentiments.  
     He’s unarmed and unsure.  
     I take a breath.  
     Okay. Okay, I can work with this.  
      “Are you here to arrest me?”  
     It’s a stupid question, but I’m buying time. He doesn’t look like a cop, but there hasn’t been any news coverage, so how else would he know? It’s a guess. A shot in the dark, that’s all.  
     Right or wrong, it makes him stop to think.  
      “For what, Josh? What have you done?”  
     That name again; bitter-sweet. The one that makes me homesick.  
     He asks, but he knows what I’ve done. I can see it in the way he’s looking at me. He wants me to say it. He wants me to spell it out for him.  
     I falter. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.  
     I need to get my shit together, but it's difficult to think clearly. I need to get the fuck out of here. I’m tempted to try the door again, but think better of it. I should have gone when I had the chance. So should he.  
      “It’s okay. It's... I _get_ it,” he says encouragingly.  
     The claim blindsides me, thoughts stuttering. He _gets_ it? What does that even fucking _mean_? What does he think he ‘gets’ about any of this when I barely have a handle on it?  
     I wince, biting back a flush of agitation. I have to stay calm. I have to keep it down in the dark place. But I also need to think and I can’t do that with these fucking words being thrown at me, tangling my thoughts up into knots.  
      “Just _talk_ to me. I can-- we--”  
      “Okay.”  
     The concession is enough to shut him up, and I’m met with a slow nod and muted relief.  
     Good.  
     I breathe in. Hold it. Exhale. I correct my stance and relax my shoulders. I unclench my jaw and loosen my hands, fists falling away. I soften my edges one by one until I am the smooth surface of a lake, unsullied by what lies beneath the cold, black water.  
     I am cooperating.  
      “Okay,” he echoes the word and seems to gain a little more confidence from it as he draws nearer. “Okay.”  
     I let him approach until we're face to face. I sense his hesitance and appreciate his caution because I honestly don’t know how this is going to play out.  
     Up close, I see him clearly. He’s matured, changed by time, but the old foundations are there; his features painfully familiar. Looking at him is like returning to a half-remembered place. A place I’ve outgrown.  
     He’s regarding me with apprehension and misguided warmth, and I briefly wonder what it’s like to see myself through his eyes.  
     The thought ages me.  
      “I can’t believe it’s _you_ ,” he says finally, voice tinged with disbelief, and that nervous smile returns; hopeful and tentative.  
     Honestly, I can’t believe it either. I really can’t. I don’t understand how or why this happened. I can’t see the steps that brought us here. But we’re here. And there’s nothing I can do about it.  
     He stands there in quiet expectation and waits for me to speak. He wants confirmation of his suspicions; validation and answers. But some things are more important than the truth; more valuable than trust.  
     I’m too quick. He doesn’t see it coming.  
      “Is there somewhere we ca--”  
     There’s a momentary lull, his guard lowered as he glances away, but it’s all I need. My muscles are coiled springs, tight beneath my skin. My fist is solid steel connecting with cartilage. He doesn’t make a sound as he drops to the ground, crumpling under the force of a well-timed blow.  
     In the silence, I can think again.  
     I look at him, quiet and limp on the floor, and kneel to scrutinise his fallen form. He’s still breathing: a rasping sound no doubt related to the streams of blood staining his lips and chin. Turning his jaw, I correct it. He breathes more easily.  
     I get to my feet.  
     He’s out for now, but I can’t relax. I don’t know how dangerous he is, how big a threat. I can’t afford to find out.  
     I look around the room, as if the answers might lie in the dead machinery or broken tiles.  
     They don’t.  
     Right now, I don’t know a fucking thing.  
      “Fuck!”  
     The curse echoes off the walls, but I’m the only one who hears it.  
     They say you always want what you can’t have. I like plans. I want to be in control. But that isn’t how my life goes, I should know that by now. Why should this be an exception? I’ve been thrown headlong into yet another heap of shit I never signed up for and left to pick up the pieces. Why does it surprise me anymore?  
     My breath is loud and shaky, but I don't hear it, too distracted by my failings. I fucked up and I don’t know how it happened. I got too comfortable, too confident. I thought myself cleverer than I am. It’s only now I see how naive I was.  
     I don't know what to do.  
      “FUCK!”  
     I suck in a breath and exhale harshly through my nose. It doesn’t help.  
      “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”  
     Where did I slip up? This is _my_ place. How did he--  
     I take another breath and force myself to stop. I can see where this is going. This confused, angry pity party isn’t helping. I need to stop and think.  
     So I do.  
     Okay… okay, so… no, I don’t have the answers. But then, the truth doesn’t really matter right now, does it? Survival has always been the goal - better than truth, better than trust - because what I do isn’t living. It’s existing. It’s _surviving_.  
     The thought is almost reassuring.  
     He makes a sound, stirring slightly, but he doesn’t wake. I know I need to act. But it's okay. I may not have planned this, but I’ve learned to adapt; a talent born of necessity. I’m good at improvising because I have to be. I know how to solve problems because that’s what I _am_.  
     What did dad used to say?  
     Ah, yes.  
      _“Adversity builds character.”_  
     Looking down at the man by my feet, I’m inclined to agree.  
     I run my hand through my hair and sigh; a soft sound of bitter amusement. It helps a little.  
     I wonder what he saw when he looked at me.  
     I push the thought aside.  
     It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s okay because I know what I’m capable of.  
     I can do this.  
     I tuck my hands beneath his arms and feel his dead weight against my chest. His heels drag heavily across the ground, kicking up dust.  
     No, I don’t have time for questions. I have another problem to deal with.  
     Answers can wait.


	7. Disassembly Line

      Thoughts, fleeting and elusive, revealed themselves in teasing glimpses, but, lolling in and out of consciousness, Chris couldn't make sense of them. For a long, dark moment, only the pain in his head existed: a throbbing ache in the centre of his skull behind sightless eyes. He winced, but it just made it worse; pain flaring along the bridge of what felt like a broken nose.  
      It felt like he might be at home, like he'd fallen asleep on the couch after work or was dozing on the bus on his way back from a heavy night. But he couldn't hear the TV or the rumble of traffic, just his own shaky breath.  
      One by one, he groggily dismissed the suggestions his mind conjured up until he was completely out of ideas. Wherever he was, it was echoey. Cold. Unfamiliar.  
      Blood. He could taste it on his lips and smell it in the air through stinging nostrils, fresh and old alike.  
      Not home.  
      _Where?_  
      Chris slowly opened his eyes but was met with darkness. He tried to lift his arm, but couldn't. He tried moving his legs, but they, too, were held in place. Something was cutting into his wrists and ankles, immobilising him.  
      _I'm tied up?_  
      They returned to him in a rush of information; hard, all too real facts that made his blood run cold. His eyes widened, but it was just as dark as before and only served to stir up the hurt, making it harder to breathe.  
      No, Chris didn't know where he was, but he had some idea how he'd ended up there, or rather, _who_ had put him there.  
      "F- _fuck_ …"  
      Wherever he was, he needed to escape.  
      Closing his eyes, Chris forced himself to calm down.  
      _Okay… okay…_  
      Frowning, he searched, pushing past the throbbing in his head, feeling around with his mind until he sensed the soundless current running silently through the walls. His brow tensed as he followed it, tracing its meandering path until he found the source. He could almost see the generator. Could almost feel it.  
      He reached out to it with his thoughts, clenching his jaw, and felt the familiar click as he made the connection. A moment later, the strip lights flickered overhead, buzzing in the quiet, illuminating the room with a harsh light. When he looked around, he wished for the ignorance of darkness again.  
      He was sitting in the centre of a windowless room; in better condition than the rest of the derelict, if that's where he still was. The furnishings suggested as much. Long metal troughs stood either side of him, flanking him from a distance. The floor was painted red, standing out against the peeling walls, lacking in the gloss of years gone by, but it did little to hide the tell-tale stains, the rusty drainage grating beneath the troughs appearing all the darker against the carmine; clinical yet marred by the dirt and stains that had come before. Metal tracks ran the length of the ceiling above him, circling the room in line with the troughs and drains; thin rails adorned with hooks, dozens of them gathered in clumps at sparse intervals, dull and menacing.  
      A metal table stood before him, pushed back against the wall some ten feet away. Atop it, taking pride of place, sat a table saw, its large, circular blade dulled by time and inert for now, yet no less threatening for it.  
      Chris took it all in, panic growing as his eyes darted between the tarnished surfaces and yellowing paintwork. Breathing through his mouth, he tasted it on his tongue: the tang of disinfectant and damp hanging in the air, and the lingering odour of butchered meat, far fresher than the aged equipment warranted.  
      _Oh, Jesus holy fucking…_  
      He looked down at himself. Sure enough, his wrists and ankles were strapped to the cold frame of the chair with plastic ties, holding him in place. But, for all the restraints, he hadn't been gagged.  
      _Because nobody will hear you and he fucking knows it._  
      He glanced over his shoulder. There was a door behind him, closed for now. He was alone, but for how long, he couldn't know for sure.  
      _You're gon-- you're gonna fucking die here._  
      He was breathing too quickly; every flustered, rapid exhale echoing off the walls, loud in his ears. He pulled against the ties and felt a flare of pain along his forearm. His sleeve was damp in places, a darker shade of black, rubbing against grazed skin.  
      _Okay, okay, oh-- think._ Think. _Get your shit together and think. Fuck, okay…_  
      He felt light-headed, spurred on by rising fear. He forced a deep breath.  
      _Okay… Can't do anything while I'm strapped to this chair…_  
      Chris tugged against the ties again, but there was no give. Leaning forward, he strained against his bindings and tried to reach his wrist with his teeth, ignoring the aches and pains before finally giving up.  
      _Who the fuck just happens to have plastic ties?_  
      He sunk back in the chair with a dejected sigh.  
      _The kind of guy who hangs out in a slaughterhouse, maybe?_  
      Slowly, he rallied, squinting as he tried to make out the other items on the table. His stun gun was there, more plastic ties, and what looked like a box cutter, but without his glasses, it was difficult to be sure. He didn't know how he was supposed to use it, but--  
      _Figure it out later. You don't have time to fucking sit here!_  
      The chair wasn't especially heavy, and its legs scraped against the ground as he rocked a little in his seat, testing it. Pushing up from the floor, he tried to shuffle forwards, but one errant push was all it took to lose his balance and cause the chair to tip. With no free hands to stop himself, he fell onto his side, jarring his shoulder, cursing as fresh pain flared along his injured arm.  
      _Shit!_  
      The clang of metal echoed off the walls, but another sound caught his attention. The door whined, opening behind him. Footfalls followed, growing louder before stopping abruptly.  
      He was too late.  
      "H-hey… _hey_ , I--"  
      Fingers slipped between Chris' shoulders and the back of the chair, pulling it up in a movement that made his head swim. Upright once more, he watched Josh cross the room away from him, Chris’ presence barely acknowledged.  
      "Hey, J-Josh… man..."  
      In the harsh light, Chris saw Josh clearer than before. The clothes he wore were everyday, yet everything about them was wrong, made sinister by circumstance. His washed-out jeans and scuffed boots were common enough, but Chris couldn't help noticing the suspicious dark brown flecks staining both denim and leather. An old band t-shirt left Josh's arms bare, but that only highlighted the leather gloves he wore; dark, out of place, and ominous against bare skin.  
      Josh cleared a space on the table then shrugged a backpack from his shoulders, a duffle bag held in his hand. He turned to face Chris, leaning back against the table's edge as he placed the bags beside him. He looked calmer than before, but even that seemed wrong. Artificial, almost. Blinking, Josh seemed fuggy at the edges. Groggy. But that was of little comfort.  
      Chris recognised the backpack as his own. His heart sank.  
      "...J-Josh?"  
      Settled on the edge of the table, Josh tugged off one of his gloves with his teeth then slipped his hand into his jeans, retrieving a lighter and a soft pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He pulled one loose from the flattened box and lit it, inhaling deeply before exhaling through pursed lips. Finally, he spoke.  
      "You wanted to talk."  
      "I…" Chris trailed off dumbly, reduced to silence by Josh's expectant gaze. "...Yes, I--"  
      "Why are you here?"  
      "Josh--"  
      "Why. Are you here?" Josh repeated calmly.  
      "I want-- I wanted to uh, to t-talk to--"  
      "We are talking."  
      "Somewhere else?" Chris asked hopefully, looking around. "Are… are we still in the factor--"  
      "It's not a factory."  
      "...W-what?"  
      "Factories make things," Josh said slowly, musing aloud. Bored, almost. "Places like this… a product arrives whole and healthy, and is gradually taken to pieces."  
      Chris' eyes darted between the hanging hooks and blood red floor before resting on the brunette once more. Josh didn't look like he was armed, but, from what Chris suspected, he didn't need to be.  
      His gaze settled on the curved saw blade. It was still connected to the mains, if he was feeling it right.  
      _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck--_  
      However Chris looked at it, he had made a terrible judgement call.  
      "You're police," said Josh. Not a question.  
      "Uh, I, I-- I'm uh, I'm not like a detective or-- Uh, I'm…" Flustered, Chris tried to steady his voice. "I'm a... computer forensic analyst."  
      "For the police," Josh stated simply.  
      "Yes, I… I _am_ , but--"  
      "Nobody sent you."  
      Again, not a question.  
      "No, but…"  
      Josh retrieved Chris' phone from his pocket, cigarette held between his lips. He looked down at it, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Nobody knows you're here. You came alone." He took another drag of his cigarette and met Chris' eye. "Why?"  
      _Because I'm a fucking idiot._  
      "Because this… it's not about the police."  
      Chris expected Josh to cut him off, maybe blindside him with more questions, but none came. Instead, Josh stayed quiet, letting him speak. Chris swallowed, gathering his thoughts. He could lie, but what good would it do? If Josh had been through his bag, he already knew too much. There was no SWAT team outside, no backup waiting to make their move. A quick scan of the area would confirm that much. Bound, with few options available to him, he'd have to talk his way out.  
      "...They don't know about you yet," Chris conceded.  
      "Yet?"  
      "I didn't mean... I-I haven't shown them any--"  
      Josh raised his hand impatiently, and Chris' words stuttered to a halt. He took another drag of his cigarette, smoke clouding the air around him. "What do you think you know?"  
      Maybe it was a trick question. Perhaps Josh already knew, Chris didn't have a fucking clue. Either way, silence wasn't an option.  
      "I know you own this place, somehow. I… I know you're involved in the deaths of nine people, at least. I don't know _how_ , but--"  
      "How did you find me?"  
      "Um, the uh… the CCTV... outside the nail salon." Chris risked a tired smile. "Vincent Smith?"  
      "Right," Josh smirked.  
      Chris watched Josh stub the half-smoked cigarette on the sole of his boot then light another. He ran gloved fingers through his hair, eyes closing as he exhaled another smoky breath. He looked tired. Weary. Even now, Chris still couldn't believe it was really him.  
      "...Where have you been?" Chris murmured.  
      If Josh heard the question, he didn't acknowledge it. His fingers curled around the stun gun. He held it up, inspecting it for a moment. "There aren't any batteries in this."  
      Chris shook his head and winced, regretting the movement. "No."  
      "But you made it work."  
      It seemed pointless denying it. Josh had felt it first-hand.  
      "...Yes."  
      "You turned the lights on," Josh said, glancing up at the ceiling. He narrowed his eyes at Chris. "...How?"  
      Chris suppressed a sigh of frustration, because that was it, wasn't it? The elusive answer to a question he'd been asking himself for years. He'd tried to understand the science of it - he'd researched it and picked it part - but it was more than charged particles, far less tangible than the laws of physics. It was a thought, a feeling, a sense that surpassed labels; one Chris still couldn't even fully comprehend. So how the hell was he supposed to explain it?  
      The answer was he couldn't. Not with words.  
      Grimacing, Chris forced himself to focus. With a thought, the stun gun crackled loud and bright in Josh's hand then clattered to the floor.  
      Josh's gaze flicked between Chris and the stun gun as the light in Chris' eyes faded, and the sparks died. Frowning, he retrieved his fallen cigarette from the table beside him and met Chris' eye, but there was no anger there, just a brooding curiosity. "What _are_ you?"  
      Not how. Not who. _What._  
      "I'm... different," Chris said, venturing a weak smile.  
      "How long?"  
      "W-what?"  
      "How long have you known?" Josh asked.  
      "Um… since-- Since college."  
      "Who else knows?"  
      At that, Chris huffed and peered down at his lap, that same weak smile playing on his lips. "Nobody," he admitted. "Just you."  
      It was the truth, all of it. Looking back, perhaps the evidence was there before; the links between voided warranties and unexplained outages spotted later with the benefit of hindsight. He’d considered telling someone, once he'd known for sure. He had friends he confided in, friends he trusted, but when it came to this part of his life… No, not this. And now, maybe it would remain that way. Maybe he'd missed the chance to share.  
      Josh watched Chris for a long moment, regarding the blond with reserved interest before looking at the stun gun once more. He tapped it warily with the toe of his boot then bent down to pick it up.  
      "You're different too, aren't you?" Chris said quietly. "I don't know how, but you are."  
      Hunched over, Josh stiffened.  
      "The things I saw-- the crime scenes… a normal person didn't do that," Chris continued carefully.  
      Josh paused then straightened. Stun gun in hand; he threw Chris a guarded glance. "You don't know me."  
      "Then _tell_ me," Chris pressed. "How did-- how did you…?"  
      Josh watched Chris a moment longer, unspoken thoughts lurking behind his eyes that set the blond's nerves on edge. Slowly, the tight, thin line of his mouth curled into a smile, but there was nothing friendly about it. "No… you don't know me at all."  
      "...I think I do."  
      Chris regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, the piercing green eyes watching him hardening in reply. He forced himself to look at Josh and tried not to squirm under the weight of the brunette's gaze.  
      "Oh, yeah?" Josh asked with a smirk. He shook his head to himself and smiled; bitter and unpleasant. "...I think we're done here."  
      An errant flick of Josh's wrist sent the cigarette skittering across the floor, landing shy of the drain. The weary haze governing Josh's actions was gone, replaced by hard lucidity. With a sigh, Josh pulled his glove back on.  
      "Josh-- wait, wait…"  
      Chris' eyes widened as it clicked in his mind, the fear he'd tried so hard to keep at bay resurfacing when Josh pushed off the edge of the table and began to approach, closing the gap between them.  
      "Whoa, whoa, wait, wait, WAIT!"  
      _Fucking think!_  
      "Those-- t-the wuh-- the women-- women in the salon. You-- y-you made sure they were safe, right?" Chris stuttered.  
      Josh stopped a few paces away, frowning darkly.  
      Chris winced. His head hurt. It was difficult to think, but Josh was listening for now. Sceptical or not, Josh was actually listening.  
      "The people you ki--" Chris blinked, shaking the word away. "...they were criminals." He peered up at Josh. "You're trying to do something, right? Something good?"  
      "No. I'm trying not to do something bad. There's a difference," Josh said, smiling bitterly.  
      "So let's _change_ that."  
      Josh paused. Frowned. "...What?"  
      "We _can_ ," Chris pressed. "We can-- we can do that. Together. You need someone to watch your back and--"  
      "Someone like you?" Josh asked, almost amused. He cocked his head to one side, the faintest twitch of his eyebrow giving away his disdain. The scar marring his cheek was clearer, bathed in artificial light, a thin, meandering line a few shades darker than his skin, creeping upward from the corner of his mouth like a crooked smile. But Josh wasn't smiling.  
      "Yeah. Someone like me," Chris said, letting out a weak, self-deprecating breath of laughter. "I found you, and I'm not even that fucking smart."  
      "And what? You think you can…" Josh huffed irritably and left the thought unfinished. He walked to the trough, gloved fingers curling over the lip as he peered down at the tarnished metal, quiet and thoughtful. A dormant threat.  
      _Oh, thank fuck._  
      With Josh's attention elsewhere, Chris breathed more easily, but barely. Perhaps he was safe, or maybe he was just delaying the inevitable - kept alive until he was no longer useful - it was difficult to tell. Either way, he was strapped to a chair in an abandoned slaughterhouse, that much he knew for sure.  
      _How did you think this was going to go? You've seen what he's done._  
      Chris tried to push the thought aside. He was alive for now; he couldn't waste that. He'd gone there to talk, another truth among the many he'd offered up so readily, but that was what he'd wanted all along. Truth, for the first time in his life, about all of it. More than that, he'd gone there with an idea; a proposition he'd envisioned laying out on the table, but not like this.  
      He didn't have a choice.  
      "I mean it," Chris said quietly, taking advantage of the lull. "We could start off small and--"  
      "No. You don't get it. I can't do small. When I'm gone, I…"  
      "Gone?"  
      Josh waved the question away with a gloved hand. "I don't go after guys for jaywalking or selling bootleg DVDs. I can't _do_ that." He straightened, jaw muscles working as he pondered his warped reflection in the trough. "I do bad things to bad people. That's it."  
      "...Like drug dealers?"  
      A flash of irritation darkened Josh's features. He shot Chris a look, leaning his weight against the metal. "Do you know how many people OD in this country every day? One hundred and twenty. That's one hundred and twenty people dead for no fucking reason. Do you know how many people are exploited because of it? How much hurt goes into something so fucking senseless and destructive? Anyone who profits from that…" He looked away, jaw clenching, face hardening. "Fuck ‘em. They're fucking garbage people."  
      Eventually, Josh met Chris' gaze, and for the first time, there was something else there besides the bitterness - a hopeful, out of place sincerity - but it soon faded. Josh shook his head to himself and slipped off his glove, retrieving the soft pack from his pocket. He was quiet for a long moment, staring thoughtfully at the cigarette.  
      "You don't get it," Josh said quietly. "I've... I've killed people. That's what's happened here. I'm not a good person." He lit the cigarette and took a drag. "You think you can stomach that?"  
      The words sent a shiver down Chris' spine. No matter how prepared he'd thought himself, to hear Josh admit it so openly, so frankly, was chilling. He'd been right about Josh, but he felt no relief or victory. He felt sick.  
      "...I went to the house. After," Chris murmured.  
      He didn't need to elaborate. He saw the flicker of recognition in Josh's eyes and tried to bury the memories the innocuous sentence conjured up; bite marks and torn flesh, blood smeared across linoleum; all the things he hadn't let himself acknowledge, not fully. But that was the truth of it, ugly as it was. Face to face, Chris couldn't hide from it anymore.  
      "I… Honestly, I... couldn't… It's hard to make sense of something like that. But you here? Talking to me, right now? I get it. It's brutal, but I get it."  
      Chris didn't know what he expected. Some common ground, perhaps. But any hope of mutual understanding was dashed in an instant. One misstep was all it took to touch a nerve.  
      "What do you think you _get_?" Josh snapped, glaring at the blond, stabbing the air with his cigarette as he spoke, punctuating every angry word. "Stop saying that you get it! No, no, no. _You_ don't get to tell _me_ that you fucking _get it_ , okay? You _don't_ fucking _get_ it. _Okay_?"  
      Chris wanted to shrink away from the tirade. Maybe he should have backed down - part of him wanted to shut up - but he'd come too far, and the words escaped him before he could think better of it.  
      "I do!" he said defiantly. "I see it all the time. Every day, people getting away with shit they shouldn't, and there's nothing I can do about it."  
      Josh levelled his gaze at him but didn't speak.  
      No, he couldn't back down, not now.  
      "We…" Chris stopped to gather his thoughts. He was walking dangerous ground and had to choose his words carefully.  
      He took a breath and started again.  
      "When I first started, I helped on a big case. A... it was a… a porn thing. Underage and… it was bad. I didn't see anything. They have specialists who do that. But just knowing it was there made my skin crawl."  
      He winced unconsciously and cleared his throat as he glanced away, lost to unwelcome thoughts till he shook himself free.  
      "We managed to shut it down. It was a big win. But there was this guy. A doctor. He was involved, but..."  
      Chris swallowed, his face a shifting canvas until it settled on a pained smile.  
      "We fucked up," he said softly, shaking his head. "We had him, and somewhere along the line, we fucked up, and he got off. We _knew_ he was involved and... And there was nothing we could do. _Everyone knew_ , but..."  
      He was back at the department, hearing it for the first time, feeling that same incomprehension all over again. Misplaced evidence. A warrant issued too late. So many obstacles, and somehow, what they'd done - what they _knew_ \- wasn't enough. He tried not to think about it anymore. Sometimes weeks would go by without acknowledgement. But it was there; the scab he kept picking at over and over again; the knowledge that, somehow, the system had failed, and he'd been part of that.  
      Chris slowly exhaled and reined in his thoughts.  
      He had Josh's attention. Josh was listening.  
      He had to talk.  
      "He lost his job. Pretty sure his marriage fell apart, boo-fucking-hoo. But he's still out there, walking around on a technicality." Chris' mouth formed an incredulous smile. "‘cause of rules and protocol, we couldn't touch him. And there's no justice in that."  
      "Justice? You think that's what this is about?"  
      Chris nodded, voice steadied by conviction. "For me? Yeah, it is."  
      Josh looked Chris up and down for a long moment, eyeing him warily. "The doctor. What was his name?"  
      Chris didn't need time to recall it; the two words etched on his memory. "Alan Hill," he replied without missing a beat, the name a bitter taste in his mouth.  
      Josh fell quiet, lost to silent brooding thoughts. He was guarded, distrust clear in the tension in his shoulders and the hard line of his mouth, but Chris didn't miss it, lurking behind those dark green eyes.  
      Doubt.  
      He had to push it, while Josh was anything close to receptive. This was it, his pitch. His one chance.  
      "Josh… You and me... We could actually do something about it. You've just gotta trust me."  
      "Trust you?"  
      At that, Josh's expression changed, pensive quiet dissipating with a sardonic gust of laughter. His smile broadened, a hard flash of teeth that slowly softened to nothing.  
      The joke wasn't funny anymore.  
      "You saw what I--" Josh bit his tongue and glanced away. "You saw what you saw. And you still came here."  
      "I wanted--"  
      "You wanted to talk, I fucking _know_ ," Josh muttered.  
      "I came because we could do about all those people who get away with it. Something _real_."  
      Chris watched the brunette take a final drag of his cigarette before flicking it away with a sigh, shoulders slumping as he peered down at it.  
      "Why me?" Josh asked, looking up at the blond.  
      The weariness was back, weighing heavily in Josh's voice and the downturn of his mouth. But Chris was close, he could feel it. Just a little more and maybe he could get through.  
      "I've searched for other people like me, like _us_ , and all I found were dead ends. But then I saw you on that screen and I…" Chris trailed off, overcome by a wistfulness he still didn't quite understand. "I've been out here on my own for so long, and somehow, out of everywhere you could be, you're here? And you're different, too?" He offered up a weak, beseeching smile. "It's like fate or something."  
      "Fate?" Josh snorted. "Like, destiny?"  
      Chris managed a tired shrug. "I don't know, man. Something like that."  
      A silence opened up between them, hanging heavily in the air. Though Chris couldn't read him, Josh seemed to be considering his words, at least, he hoped as much. Without distraction, the ache in his head flared up anew, drawing strength from the quiet.  
      Chris sniffed and winced. "Fuck…"  
      Josh continued watching him, as though scrutinising a scientific specimen. Finally, he glanced over his shoulder and sighed. Without a word, he unzipped the duffle bag and rummaged inside, pulled loose a bottle of water and a small orange pill bottle, then picked up the box cutter.  
      Chris sat up straighter as Josh approached to kneel down before him, placing the water and pills on the floor by Chris' feet. He watched, eyes drawn to Josh's hand as he extended the blade with a slide of his thumb, and tried not to flinch as the brunette forced a finger beneath the plastic, severing the tie binding his wrist with a few strokes of the knife.  
      "Thanks."  
      Josh made a gruff sound of acknowledgement and repeated the process, freeing Chris' other hand. Cautiously, he placed the knife on the ground then picked up the pills and water, offering them up.  
      Chris looked at the pills and hesitated. "...What’s--"  
      "Codeine. It's the best I've got right now."  
      When Chris' uncertainty failed to fade, Josh smirked and got to his feet, pouring two large gel caps into his palm and knocking them back. He poured two more then stooped down to pick up the water bottle, holding them out to the blond.  
      Chris gingerly pressed his fingertip to his nose and winced, sucking air in through his teeth. After a moment of uneasy deliberation, he took the pills, swallowing them down with a mouthful of water that kept going till the bottle was drained, bested by a thirst he hadn't realised till then. When he surfaced, Josh had already made short work of one of the ankle ties, glancing up at Chris before turning his attention to the other.  
      Chris felt his shoulders relax, just a touch. He was free, or closer to it, a step in the right direction. It was progress.  
      When the final tie snapped in two, Josh got to his feet. Slowly, he retracted the blade and placed it in his back pocket.  
      "I'm sorry, for…" He gestured to Chris' face.  
      "Yeah," Chris managed an apologetic smile. "Me too."  
      Josh huffed and looked down at himself. He pulled up his shirt and inspected the skin beneath; reddened with the makings of a nasty cluster of bruises, marring his stomach. With a smirk, he let the material fall. "I've had worse."  
      Chris wiped his mouth on his hand; his palm smeared red with dried blood. He sniffed, carefully dabbing his nose with his sleeve, a tired smile tugging at his lips.  
      "You're a liar," Josh said softly.  
      "What? No, I--"  
      "There's no way you're six-two."  
      Chris peered up at Josh, lost and confused until Josh pulled Chris' license from his pocket. He watched the brunette examine it and huffed relief. "Close enough, right?"  
      They shared a look, something close to amusement gracing Josh's lips. He wasn't safe. Not yet. But, in that moment, Chris felt it; the hope he'd clung to during his weeks of investigation. Hell, longer than that, reaching back, infrequent yet pervasive throughout his years alone.  
      Josh looked the blond up and down for a long moment. "...You haven't changed much," he murmured.  
      "s'that a good thing?"  
      Josh shrugged. "Fuck knows."  
      Chris went to speak again but faltered, the unspoken sentiment proven false before he uttered it. He might not have changed, but Josh had, at least on the surface, maybe deeper. Whatever trust had been there before had faded. But it didn't mean it couldn't be there again.  
      He watched Josh walk away to place the license on the table.  
      "...Where were you, man?" Chris asked, then frowned, head swimming uneasily before evening out. Steadying himself, he blinked a few times, vision clearing.  
      Josh seemed not to notice, toying over an answer before shrugging again. He turned away to rummage through the duffle bag, returning with a wad of tissues. He held them out.  
      "Thann…"  
      The tissues fell from Chris' grip to the floor. He peered down at his hand curiously, now resting on his thigh, and blinked again, but it felt like an effort to keep his eyes open.  
      "Juh…?"  
      He could sense Josh watching him and felt the brunette's fingers wrap around his arm, lifting it up then releasing it, letting it fall limp in his lap.  
      "I _am_ sorry," Josh said, voice ambling with the slightest of slurs. "For everything. But this... isn't going to work out."  
      Chris tried to lift his head, but couldn't. It felt like he was frowning, maybe. He wanted to, but his face barely moved. His limbs felt heavy, arms slumped, head lolling forward as he struggled to see. He didn't feel right, but for some reason, it didn't feel like it mattered all that much anymore. Maybe it didn't.  
      "Iss…"  
      "And I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye. The first time."  
      He heard Josh sigh, words tinged with regret. But with the room fading around him, Chris couldn't take any solace from it.

~*~

It's cold out, but I don't feel it. Weighed down by six hundred milligrams of animal tranquilliser, the task of dragging his limp body was more laborious this time, more than enough exercise to keep me warm.  
      From a distance, I look at the car; its dark outline drowned out by the distant bright white beams of its headlamps. The sun's a long way off rising, but I manage to see what I'm doing, and slowly push away from the tree to head towards them, counting the paces as I go.  
      With each measured step, my doubt grows.  
      This is a bad idea.  
      I lean in through the driver's side door when I reach the car and prop his head against the headrest. I run my fingers beneath his seatbelt and find it taut. Secure.  
      Good. That's a good thing.  
      The thought is dumb, simple, but I cling to it.  
      I have to.  
      Sniffing, I stand up, closing the door with a satisfying thunk. I feel groggy, but that seems to be the worst of it. Most things haven't touched the sides for years, my hardy constitution adept at keeping me upright, whether I want to be or not. A gift, I suppose. Useful, for once.  
      I look back at the tree. Forty feet, give or take. It should be enough if basic physics hasn't deserted me, but with my mind how it is, I don't know how much I trust myself.  
      But I have to.  
      I round the car to the passenger side, and my head swims, just long enough to throw me off kilter. I regain my balance on the car, both hands pressed against it, bracing myself. It seems my tolerance isn't as high as I figured, but it's too late to do anything about it now.  
      Closing my eyes, I try to gather my thoughts.  
      I wonder if he'll say anything. My gut tells me he won't. He's got his own secrets to worry over, his own agenda. He's done his research. Armed with a bag of building schematics and incriminating documents, now confiscated, he came prepared.  
      I sigh and knuckle my eye, struggling to focus.  
      He knows too much. A gut feeling isn't good enough. But he didn't come here to kill me, a fact I can't ignore. I don't want him dead. I don't need his life on my conscience. But I can't let him walk away either.  
      I need to make him fallible. Unreliable.  
      So, here we are. Improvising.  
      Always improvising.  
      No matter how I look at it, this is a bad idea.  
      I sit down in the passenger seat, close the door behind me, and fasten my seatbelt with numb fingers. I look over at him. His eyes are barely open, staring blankly out at nothing. Fuck knows what he sees right now. He might be seeing all kinds of things, maybe nothing at all, not that he can tell me.  
      I reach beneath the dash and manually turn off the passenger airbag. I can't let anyone know I was here. There'll be evidence, it's unavoidable, but I have to do what I can.  
      "S'fine."  
      I might be talking to him, maybe to myself. Either way, this isn't fine.  
      The story's simple. A guy goes out on a drive. He's overworked, falls asleep at the wheel, swerves off the road, crashes. It's almost plausible or would be, were it not for the drugs in his system, but there's little I can do about that. Maybe it'll even work in my favour. He can claim whatever he likes. Pumped full of veterinary grade sedatives, who's going to believe him? He would have to tell them things he doesn't want to, admit to things that put him at risk.  
      So, he crashes his car. Breaks his nose. A call from the burner in my pocket will send an ambulance his way.  
      Then what?  
      Then I sell up and leave town, burning the past like I have so many times before; over and over again until I'm barely the same person I started out as.  
      _Then_ what?  
      What else am I supposed to do?  
      "S'fine," I say again.  
      But it's not fine. Not at all.  
      This is a bad idea, yet somehow not the worst I've ever had. Top five, maybe. Top ten, definitely. None of my ideas are good, little more than poorly thought-out compromises, but it's the best I've got. I'm giving him an alibi, an explanation for it all. He just has to choose to take it.  
      And if he doesn't?  
      I glance over at him and shift my leg, foot hovering over his. I was wrong about how it would end this time. Of all the scenarios I played out in my head, seeing someone I knew - someone who knew _me_ \- never figured into it. Maybe his heart is in the right place. Maybe he's just idealistic and naive, traits I thought he might outgrow. But it doesn't matter.  
      I sigh despite myself.  
      I am sorry. It's nice to know I mean it, that I could afford him that much honestly, but this is how it has to be.  
      It has to.  
      I look out through the windshield and hope I've judged the distance right or we're going to get a face full of tree way too fast.  
      Guess we'll find out.  
      I take a deep breath and hold the wheel steady as I stamp on his foot, pressing it against the accelerator. The car lurches forward.  
      This… this is going to hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> [Art for this fic](http://wundigo.tumblr.com/post/154390212522/messofcurls-creative-just-started-the-new)
> 
>  
> 
> Tumblr: [@messofcurls-creative](https://messofcurls-creative.tumblr.com/)


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